


Occupational Hazards

by sunflowerprince



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Related, Monsters, Multi, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Team Feels, Teamwork is Dreamwork, The Institute - Freeform, Vampires, Werewolves, all the greatest hits honestly, everyone is messy but we love to see it, in this one probably no ones dies but some are already undead ya feel, just throw all the characters into a cauldron it's spooky town, life and times at the combination archives and hit squad, no beta we die like our favorite characters, vampire jon and flower martin and everything else my heart desired, who you gonna call
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 113,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25523869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerprince/pseuds/sunflowerprince
Summary: Welcome to the Magnus Institute, a creature feature where representatives from every Entity collaborate to preserve and investigate artefacts, examine public testimonials, conduct paranormal research, and yes, occasionally exterminate. There are our rapscallions we're fond of, such as that silly Distortion, always getting up to hijinks and light maiming. But then there are our liabilities, such as Nikola Orsinov and Jude Perry, who really could use some premeditated murder, which our team captain Basira Hussain is more than happy to arrange. We also must eliminate any and all manifestations of the Extinction, because we're trying to have a nice time here.Feat. Head Archivist and Resident Vampire Jonathan Sims and his Archival Staff, Task Force Captain and Resident Phoenix Basira Hussain and her Squad, and Director Elias Bouchard, which we have no idea what the fuck he is but he sure is something. With special appearances from several departments to include Research speared by Peter Lukas, and our pool of consultants, to include our favourite podcaster and avatar of The End, Georgie Barker.Step right in and mind the bloodshed and cassettes.
Relationships: Agnes Montague & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker & Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael "Mike" Crew & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 166
Kudos: 187





	1. Directory and Manifest of The Magnus Institute

**Directory of the Magnus Institute**  


**Director**

Elias Bouchard: Affiliations: The Eye: ?? 

**l Human Resources l**

Ingrid Stark: Affiliations: The Eye and The Web: Weaver

**l The Archival Staff l**

Head Archivist: Jonathan Sims: Affiliations: The Eye and The Hunt: Vampire  
Assistant Head Archivist: Sasha James: Affiliations: The Eye and The Spiral: Shapeshifter  
Archival Assistant: Timothy Stoker: Affiliations: The Eye and The Vast: Siren  
Archival Assistant: Martin Blackwood: Affiliations: The Eye and The Buried: Green Man

**l The Containment Task Forces l**

Task Force Captain: Basira Hussain: Affiliations: The Desolation: Phoenix  
Lieutenant: Alice “Daisy” Tonner: Affiliations: The Hunt: Werewolf  
Operative: Melanie King: Affiliations: The Slaughter: Banshee  
Operative: Agnes Montague: Affiliations: The Desolation: Phoenix  
Operative: Michael “Mike” Crew: Affiliations: The Vast: Astronaut 

**l The Research Department l**

Head of Department: Peter Lukas: Affiliations: The Eye and The Lonely: Poltergeist  
Head Librarian: Rosie Maddock: Affiliations: The Eye: Seer  
Collections Specialist: Jurgen Leitner: Affiliations: The Eye: Tome

Assorted Staff & Interns.

**l Artefact Storage l**

Head of Department: Gerard Keay: Affiliations: The Eye: Specter 

Assorted Staff & Interns.

**l Consultants l**

Georgina “Georgia” Barker: Affiliations: The End: Reaper  
Oliver Banks: Affiliations: The End: Vigil & Groundskeeper  
Section 31: Affiliations: Misc.

**_Notes from HR:_** All classifications of Staff are their preferred designations. As “Green Men” and “Phoenixes” do not exist as commonly known in lore, these are titles chosen for analogous qualities. Similarly, titles such as “Siren” and “Astronaut” are distinctions commonly used among associates of the Vast to differentiate those more skilled in water pressure manipulation as opposed to vertigo. 

**l Manifest of the Magnus Institute l**

The Institute, as founded by Jonah Magnus, is a stronghold of the Beholding, a center of knowledge, research, and preservation of the paranormal. In recent years under the direction of Elias Bouchard, it has branched into a collaboration between representatives from all Powers, excluding the Extinction, as a joint effort to keep the knowledge of their existence at the peripherals of human society. The Archives works in conjunction with the Containment Task Force to verify statements received from the general public and filter out those that pose risks to the sustainability of fearmongering in modern society. Typically these include aberrations such as particularly indiscreet iterations of the Not!Them, overzealous avatars, and shoddily done rituals. Redirection often proves fruitless, and thus the Containment Task Force tends to eviscerate rather than rehabilitate. In addition, the Institute’s several research departments examine, catalog, and theorize on all facets of the manifestations of the Powers.


	2. creatures of habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon is a sour skittle, Sasha entertains a dalliance on the clock, and Martin sets out to hunt down a ghost spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello pals! Thank you for your interest in this little experiment of hijinks. This will be canon-adjacent, I'll be picking and choosing what I'd like to incorporate here as well as weaving things out of the recesses of my mind. For now, know that Elias is still terrible and plotting the Watcher's Crown and things are about to get quite wormy.
> 
> I will be playing around with different POVs, mostly Jon and Martin, and mayhap a bit of Basira. We'll see. I don't typically do multiple POVs in the same chapter, so please let me know if it's confusing.

There was a three-eyed crow sitting on Jonathan Sim’s desk when he got in.

He sighed, slinging his messenger bag and coat on the rack. He retrieved his beaten metal flask from his coat pocket and took a bracing swig, a sharp mouthful of blood, before transferring it to the deep pocket of his trousers before sitting down and facing the bird.

“Get on with it, then.”

The bird tilted its head, milky eyes unseeing yet somehow piercing through Jon all the same. It dropped the note in its beak, then, with uncanny timing as always, flew out the office door just as Martin was walking in.

“Bloody hell!” He cursed, narrowly avoiding dropping the mug cradled in his hands. Jon was equally annoyed and impressed. “I right hate those birds.”

Jon ignored him, unraveling the note the bird had left on behalf of Ingrid Stark, who comprised the HR department. 

_Stop scaring the interns, Archivist._

He swiped his tongue along each of his sharp canines, brow furrowed. He’d rather thought he’d been on his best behaviour. He’d only made one cry this month, and really, the best way for that to have been avoided was for the intern in question to not have knocked over an inkwell onto a priceless tome. He’d had to send it to Gerry in Artefact Storage to salvage before Jurgen got wind of it. He’d narrowly spared the intern much worse if Leitner had found out one of his precious collection works was spoiled by clumsy human hands. 

Martin cleared his throat awkwardly and Jon looked up with an arched brow, crumpling the strip of paper and tossing it in the bin under his desk.

“I was just—on my way to do a bit of field work, follow up on that Vittery statement. Thought I’d bring you a cuppa on the way out?” There was a blush high in his cheeks. Jon always found that curious and somewhat distasteful, how easily overcome Martin was by the slightest emotional provocation. He did admit it was…pretty, in a clinical kind of way. Being a vampire, Jon did not blush much. He hadn’t even when he’d still been human. In others, it was a rather distracting phenomenon. 

“Very well.” He said finally.

Relieved by the break in silence, Martin bumbled into the room, depositing the steaming mug on the closest clear space on the desk. Admittedly, there was not much. For all Jon’s bemoaning of his predecessor’s filing system—or lack thereof, Gertrude Robinson apparently had a deathly allergy to file cabinets, notation, and manila folders—his desk was not unlike a small contained hurricane of documents and cassette tapes.

Jon took a performative sip of tea—contrary to most popular beliefs, vampires could in fact eat and drink for pleasure rather than necessity. And Martin did make an excellent cuppa, which Jon found annoying. Of course Martin would excel at anything but his actual job.

Well, he usually made an excellent cuppa.

“Martin.” He said calmly as he put the mug back on his desk with a soft _clink_.

“Ah, yes Jon?”

“There is a petal in my tea.”

“Oh, I’m—I’m so sorry.” Martin’s blush extended down his neck and he made to take the mug. Jon waved him off. 

“It’s fine.” 

“It won’t happen again. Swear.” He nervously pushed a curl behind his ear, fingertips brushing against one of the flowers perpetually in his hair. A sprig of forget-me-nots. As an avatar of the Buried, it was one of his more delicate traits. He was also prone to tracking mud and, for lack of a better description, entire flower beds in his wake. He was getting better at controlling it, though. Which Jon made a point of putting on his performance review, because Elias required him to include at least “three positives.”

“Mm.” Jon made a noncommittal noise. “In regards to the Vittery statement. You’ll be interviewing the landlord? His neighbours?”

“Whoever I can find.” Martin agreed. He paused. “And, you know, the, uh, earth.”

That was another positive on the review. Martin had the ability to talk to the earth and its flora. He insisted they had distinct personalities, but Jon was already extremely skeptical of his brain to even process what they spoke as coherent speech, despite all empirical evidence supporting the theory. Regardless of his misgivings about the…personalities…of plants and dirt, having someone who could glean information from such was invaluable when there often weren’t corroborating witnesses for claims of paranormal encounters. The Entities tended to work under the cover of isolation.

“Very well.” Jon repeated. He returned to his work, sorting statements that were found in various nooks and crannies of the storage room, in various states of condition. When he’d first come to the Institute and consented to being an agent of the Eye, on loan from the Hunt, he’d had to attempt recordings on his laptop to divine whether a statement held water or not. Now he just Knew, and gathered the worthless statements into what he called the Mortal Nonsense file. 

Martin, correctly interrupting his dismissal, closed the door to his office behind him.

xxx

“On your way out, Mart-O?” Tim asked from his desk, feet propped up and sitting back perilously in his chair.

“One day you’re going to fall doing that. You’ll look a fool. And yes. Headed to Vittery’s apartment.”

“The danger is part and parcel of my suave. A necessary risk, if you will.” Tim said soberly. Then he perked up. “Ghost spider?”

“Ghost spider.” Martin sighed. “I do hope it’s around. I do enjoy a good spider.”

Tim pulled a face. “Don’t let Jon hear you say that. They give him the creeps. And I don’t have much love for them either.”

“Spiders, you say?” Sasha asked, appearing from a door that wasn’t there. “I’ll definitely not make a note of that.” She smiled, and for a moment, it seemed like she had too many teeth. Or that her mouth was too wide?

“You’re hanging out with the _Distortion_ again?” Tim seemed affronted.

“Their name’s Michael. Mostly.” She grinned, and this time she definitely had too wide a mouth in a Cheshire grin. “And they're on the 'do not exterminate on sight' list, perfectly acceptable companionship.”

“They _maim_ people, Sasha.”

“They _rearrange_ people, Tim.” 

Tim rolled his eyes. “I’d love to rearrange _them_.”

Sasha tutted. “They're off limits. We’re dating.”

“ _You’re dating the Dis—Michael?_ ” This time it was Martin, incredulous. 

“Well. They're not much for commitment. We’re more friends with benefits.” Sasha said slyly. “Well. They're not much for friends. We’re more frenemies with benefits." She paused. "Well. There are benefits.”

“How does that even work?” Martin asked. When he realized what he’d said, his blush came on in full force.

“Roses in your cheeks.” Sasha cackled. “I don’t think you really want to understand the anatomical workings of two creatures of the Spiral.”

“You’re absolutely right.” Tim grimaced.

“Jealous?” She asked, walking over to perch on Tim’s desk. “I still like you more, if that makes you feel better.”

Tim looked mollified despite himself.

“Back to ghost spiders, though.” Sasha turned to Martin. “I’m very interested to know how a ghost spider encases a full grown man in webbing and manages it all down his throat. Must be a very big spider. A very big spider or a spider with a spider gang to help them out. An army of ghost spiders? Can you imagine the total number of _legs_?”

“Shut up Sasha.” Jon called from his office.

“Mind your business, vampire.” She sang back.

“That was obviously for his benefit.” Martin pointed out.

“Really? I rather thought it was to mine.”

Martin rolled his eyes affectionately. Sasha didn’t start out as an avatar of the Spiral—she was actually one of the few humans on staff at the Institute, an ace in the field. But she’d been entangled in the Distortion’s games and rather than succumb to their wiles by walking through the door that was not there, she had somehow turned the tables on them, and now she walked their halls freely. Avatarhood had sharpened her a bit, certainly made her jokes run unkind on occasion, and she lied much more frequently. But she was always quick with the aftercare for those she loved and graciously provided easy tells to her lies so they wouldn’t get in the way of her professional duties and her work relationships. It was rather a lot more discipline than could be expected, all things considered.

“Was that bad enough I should apologize?” She mused. 

“Yes.” Tim and Martin said at the same time. 

She sulked. “Alright, then. Hey Jon! Come out here so I can apologize.”

Jon exited his office. “You know, some of us actually work here.” He groused, but it was tempered by the exasperated fondness he held for her. Martin never could work out what drove Jon’s inclinations towards affection, tolerance, and exasperation. He’d certainly only ever achieved exasperation, and disdain on most days that ended in “y.”

Tim looked around in mock surprise. “Who? Where?”

Jon bit back a smile. “I’m not actually amused, it’s just the siren thing.”

“You know that’s not real.” Tim pointed at him. “You just like me.”

“Pretty sure it has to be a supernatural force at work.” He turned to Martin. “Aren’t you at the Vittery place?”

Martin ran a hand through his hair, chastised. The soft brush of the petals there, his flowers a gentle weight, were reassuring. They murmured consolation. “Yep, I’m not here, don’t look at me.” 

Martin got a better grip on his battered leather bag—a particularly good find at a charity shop—and made for the door.

“See ya Martin.” Tim called after him.

“Bye.” Sasha sang. As the door closed behind him, he could hear her lowered voice as she addressed Jon. “You’re so mean.”

When Martin boarded the train, it was with a newfound resolve.

He was going to get to the bottom of the Kill Bill spider if it was the last thing he did.

“I like your flower crown.” The little girl sitting across from him said. “I wish my mom let me go out in flower crowns.” 

“Thank you.” Martin smiled. 

His flowers were quite pleased.


	3. escape room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin meets Jane Prentiss and Jon has the emotional intelligence of a single wellington boot. 
> 
> CWs for this chapter: body horror, canon typical worms, mild gore, emotional negligence, mention of panic attacks.

“So you got nothing useful, then.” Jon said tonelessly as Martin recounted his visit to Vittery’s apartments. “No leads. No evidence of the…nasty creature Vittery dealt with. Or I suppose, that dealt with him.” According to Martin, the landlord and neighbours had been disinterested and unforthcoming, only taking the initiative to comment on how “strange, that one” and “dreadful way to go, absolutely horror show.” Only once he had insinuated he was called in as some kind of home inspector did the landlord provide the information he did have, which was very little. Vittery had submitted several maintenance requests for pest control that the landlord obliged twice in the same month then refused to fulfill any more once Vittery started rambling about it being “the same damned spider, always finding its way back to me.”

“Well…yes, basically.” Martin admitted reluctantly. “There weren’t any plants in the apartment and as he lived a couple floors up, none of the ones outside had much of a vantage point to see his comings and goings and anything in the flat itself.”

“Very well.” Jon put on his reading glasses, a tortoiseshell number that made him look impossibly even more like a professor holding a lecture with Martin being the student dragging the class average down. “In that case, there is a roster of contacts associated with Vittery. Reach out to his surviving family and mates to get testimonials about any mentions of the ‘ghost spider’ and any patterns of erratic behaviour or paranoia over their time knowing him.” Truthfully, it was just busy work since Jon had already ascertained they were dealing with an Entity, but it could at least help add some meat to the bones of the Entity’s workings.

By the end of the day Martin had only been able to discern that Vittery’s mother was dead, his father was in an assisted living facility on account of dementia, and one of his uni mates confirmed Vittery’s longstanding feud with spiders, saying “he absolutely refused to join in on Hell Nights or spook houses just in case spiders were lurking in the dark, real or otherwise.” Not helpful but it had had the desired effect of keeping Martin on task while keeping him from any tasks he could dreadfully botch.

He stayed at the Archives long after the rest of the team retired for the day. He was likely to work through the night. He did actually require sleep at some point—it expedited his healing processes and cut down on mental fatigue, his brain tended to run too fast and he had to forcibly slow himself down so he didn’t burn out. He’d take a cat nap—or, as Sasha insisted, “bat nap”—on the cot in the storage room.

Once midnight rolled around, he moved to said cot, still scouring a pile loose statements that needed cross-referencing. He fell asleep only when he was exhausted enough to submit to the inconvenient need for rest. He had a cassette tape clutched in his hand like a talisman.

xxx

“I should not be here.” Martin said for the dozenth time as he crept around Vittery’s apartment complex. He was shimmying through a rather alarmingly unsecured window to the dank basement. “Lord, if this isn’t a squeeze. Feel like I’ll get stuck like a cat in the cat flap.” 

Once he was on steady ground, he peered around the basement with his torch. He shouldn’t be trespassing, especially in the dead of night. But he could almost feel Jon’s unsurprised condemnation when he came back to the Archives empty handed. It was like a weight around his shoulders—not the comforting weight of the Buried, but the leaden weight of being a failure. He was deeply aware he was unqualified for his job—his CV was a mosaic of lies, after all—and he was used to falling short. But this time he was going to prove himself, he was going to go above and beyond, he was going to find any and every clue Vittery’s apartment could yield.

He was going to scream in a decidedly shrill manner when his torch landed on a figure hunched over in the far reaches of the basement. 

“H-hullo?” He called once he’d recovered himself. 

The figure seemed to twitch, their red dress soiled with incomprehensible stains in the stark light. 

“Are you—are you alright?” He realized that neither of them belonged in the chill basement in the embrace of full dark. He didn’t know if that bolstered his confidence or if he should be bolting.

“Hello.” The woman’s voice sounded garbled, like there was phlegm stuck in her throat. It was rather disgusting, but Martin ardently tried not to think rude thoughts. “Would you like to be a home?”

“Ah—what?”

The figure turned slowly. “Would you like to be loved bone deep? Loved down to every cell in your beautiful, aching body?”

Martin staggered back as the woman came into full view.

Her face was honeycombed with holes, as was every bit of bared flesh he could see. There were—squirming things—peeking out of the holes and spilling onto the cold cement floor. Where one of her eyes was meant to be was a horrid, collapsed goo like a runny egg. He could see what he now recognized as worms leaking out of the spoiled eye like pus. Martin gagged.

“Do you hear their _ssssong_?” The woman asked. “Their vows to love you in sickness and sickness and health?”

A flurry of statements pricked at the back of his brain. This could only be Jane Prentiss, who was a staple on the ‘do not exterminate but keep a close, close eye’ list in the Containment department. Martin swallowed hard, stomaching bile, as he took several healthy steps backward.

“All you have to do is open up your heart, little Avatar. Open up your muscles and your marrow and your _skin_.”

All Martin knew was survival in that moment. He acted on instinct, calling up the heavy, suffocating cement to form a barrier between him and Prentiss and her paranormal parasites. His flowers were screaming, screaming, screaming for him to run, to get away from the creeping crawling filth. 

He could hear Prentiss hissing as she scaled the rough hewn shield he’d conjured, as he scrabbled through the blessedly open window. It was a close call, he felt Prentiss’s nails and fingers sloughed of flesh scrape at his ankles as he ran and did not look back. 

He did not slow down until he was home behind a locked door. Only then did he realize he had lost his phone sometime between entering the basement and fleeing it. 

“Blast.” He cursed. He was not looking forward to purchasing a new cell. His was only a couple years old and he maxed out everything he owned before he could bring himself to replace it. 

His financial mourning was cut short when he heard a soft rap on the door, followed by the sound of nails dragging across the wood. 

“Don’t be coy little Avatar—you were made for this. Formed of flora and soil and sunshine, perfect for nesting, for burrowing, for keeping safe. Oh, how you will be loved. How you will glow with the perfection of unconditional devotion.” 

A chill spilled down Martin’s spine as he froze, a deer looking in the hunter’s eyes and not the barrel of their gun. He shook himself into action, grabbing the towel by his kitchenette sink and stuffing it under the door. And then another. Slowly he built a fortress of fabric and chairs and prayers to a god he wasn’t convinced he believed in. He sank into the far corner of the living space, back against the wall, eyes fixed on the door, knees tucked to his chest. His breath came ragged and he worried he was on the brink of a panic attack. He invoked his connection to the plant on his doorstep—a cactus, an inside joke with himself. What better plant to act as sentry to his domain?

A week later, he stopped changing clothes. He stopped pretending he could sleep without dawn forcing him under. He ran out of ready meals and pasta and the half-empty container of couscous that had been living at the back of his pantry, that he had to pick a dead bug out of. He was surrounded by a lax pentagram of tea mugs, amber rings soldered to the bottoms.

A week after that, he felt he would vomit if he felt another canned peach try to slide down his throat in its thick syrup. He did vomit when a worm crawled up his sink drain in the wash closet. He stuffed blankets under the door with unforgiving force. He would only relieve himself when things got downright dire. 

A day after that, finally, finally, Jane Prentiss stopped haunting his flat, stopped crooning sweet nothings through the door, stopped enticing him to host her sickly parasites and be fulfilled. 

Only in the stark daylight of the day after did he brave the outside world. The sunlight burned into his corneas. He barely had the wherewithal to finally change the clothes he’d been huddled in for the better part of the last week. He put on deodorant as an afterthought, the first humanizing ritual in days. Braced by the sharp scent of pine and driven by the gnawing hunger dissolving his stomach, he made his way to the nearest café, scarfed down a panini so quickly he might have choked and the barista who brought his cappuccino asked if he was doing alright in a way that actually said “please do not choke here and do you maybe need to talk to someone?”

When he made it to the Institute, he crossed paths with Elias in the hall. 

“Martin.” He said with neither warmth nor chill. “Glad to see you’re out and about and looking—well—I wouldn’t say tip top but definitely on the side of the living.”

Martin looked at him quizzically.

“Must have been a real nasty… _bug_ to keep you out of commission for so long.” Now a soft smirk formed on his boss’s boss’s lips and Martin flinched. 

“…Yes. That, of course.” 

“Well, I’m sure your associates are eager to see you in better health.” Elias said, nodding slightly as he made his way in the opposite direction, toward his office.

Martin shook his head in a daze before making for the Archives.

“Mart-O!” Tim exclaimed. “Welcome back. Was worried you up and perished on us.”

“Yes, welcome, Martin.” Sasha said from her perch on the corner of Tim’s desk. There was a thick ream of paper in her hands and a highlighter between her teeth. They looked quite human today. “I’ve been concerned since you didn’t respond to any of my texts. So sick you couldn’t pick up the phone? Poor love. The tea’s been dreadful by the way. Mind, Tim’s competent, but once you’ve tasted ambrosia no human vintage shall do.”

“I, uh, lost my phone.” He apologized. He was warmed by the sentiment of them not only noticing his absence but actively missing him. But by God he was so confused.

“Hmm? Jon said you just texted this morning saying you were feeling much better.” Sasha narrowed her eyes. “Are you dodging me, Blackwood? I’m hurt.”

“I—” Before he could finish the sentence, Jon emerged from his office.

“Oh, there you are.” Jon said brusquely. “You’ve quite a backlog of work to catch up on. Mostly phone interviews and news clippings to review. Oh, glad you’re feeling functional.” He tacked on as an afterthought. It was the closest thing to concern Martin had ever gotten from his boss, so the spark of gratitude was not surprising, but was deeply embarrassing. He would follow Jon’s crumbs of approval through the dark wood and straight into the witch’s oven.

“I, um, it’ll have to wait—which is to say, I have to make a statement first.”

Jon pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose, frowning. “ _Make_ a statement? Whatever for?”

“Well, uh. Ran into the living hive that is Jane Prentiss, as you do, small world, and um, she kind of…trapped me in my apartment.”

“What? When was this?” Jon asked sharply.

“Two weeks ago. For the, um, the last two weeks, actually.”

“Why didn’t you let us know!” Sasha exclaimed. “I would have come and clawed her putrid face from her putrid body.”

“I really did lose my phone. And my internet went out a day in.”

“That’s terrible.” Tim said sympathetically. “Was she as gross up close as the reports say?”

“Her eye was an oozing mess of gore and worms.” 

“Wicked.” Sasha said appreciatively. 

Jon shook his head. “Revolting. Very well, come along, then. Let’s get you on the record.” Jon broke his stride, hand around the door handle to his office. He let out a labored exhale. “We’ll have to pass this along to Basira so she can reconsider Prentiss’s classification. Though I doubt a little avatar in-fighting will change anything.” Another sigh, deeper still, as if Atlas had transferred the world to his shoulders. “Ingrid is going to be an absolute terror about this. Well. At least you didn’t die.”

Martin’s heart beat a little brighter.

“The forms take up an entire binder, did you know? And the whole team would have to complete a mandatory counseling session with the therapist on retainer.”

“Jon, you’re being horrible again.” Sasha pointed out. 

“Am I?”

“Martin has just been through a _trauma_ and you’re going on about the inconvenience of his demise.”

“Oh.” Jon tilted his head. “Yes, that does sound rather bad when you say it like that.” He turned to Martin. “I’m sorry you have had an unpleasant experience. Come get settled.” He paused. “I’ll fetch you a shortbread.”


	4. where there's smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything gets rather gross. 
> 
> CWs for this chapter: canon typical worms, body horror, mild gore, rot, eco horror, emotional manipulation, mind control, attempted murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a real fun chapter to write, I'm trying to explore all kinds of angles of discomfort and horror. I really don't have an overarching plot at this point, kind of just weaving in and out of canon. We're discovering this story together haha.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Be well be safe <3

Tim whistled on his way into the Archival offices, expense report form in hand. Last night he’d had a particularly bountiful rendezvous regarding the Warwick case and all it had taken was pouring out a bottle of top-shelf wine while listening to the officer discuss his locomotive collection. Elias was getting stingier with reimbursements so he’d gone to great pains outlining in depth all the information he’d gleaned from the meeting. 

“Good morning, Martin.” He said, chipper, almost singsong, as he tossed his coat on the back of the chair at his desk.

“Morning Tim.” Martin said, barely glancing up. 

“Well you’re hard at work. Where’s Sasha?”

“She’s out doing fieldwork today, following up on the McGregor statement. She’s at the humane society. Something about a cat with too many eyes.”

“We should see if we can convince Jon to let her adopt us an office cat. Like some bookshops have, y’know? A cat with too many eyes would be perfect here.”

“Absolutely not.” Jon called from his office. 

“I’m not talking to you yet!” Tim called back. “Nosy vampire.”

“I can still hear you.” Jon said dryly.

“Nosy. Vampire.” Tim called louder. 

He walked into Jon’s office without knocking. “I’ve the expense report from my business meeting with Officer Burns.” 

“Business meeting.” Jon arched a brow.

“Business _date_.” Tim rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t bill you for the after party.”

“Christ, Tim.” If Jon could easily blush, he would have, Tim knew. He smiled. “You know, if you keep…bedding…your informants, Elias is likely to cease expensing things full stop.”

“Yes, yes. He’ll say, ‘too much pleasure and not enough business, Timothy. I simply cannot abide wasting the donors’ money on your harlotry.’” Tim’s voice deepened in a mockery of Elias’s refinement. He flashed a particularly sharp-toothed smile. 

“Did you show those to the lawman?” Jon asked, droll.

“Boss, I am a gentleman. Any intimate experience of mine you know of, it will be because you experienced it firsthand.” Tim winked.

The blush in Jon’s dark amber skin was extremely gratifying. “Timothy, that is entirely inappropriate.”

Tim flashed a warm, even-toothed grin. “But it was quite fun.” He handed over the paperwork and turned on his heel.

“Bloody sirens.” He heard Jon mutter to himself as he walked out the door.

“Do think about the cat.” Tim called over his shoulder. “What are you working on, then, Martin?”

Martin was hunched over his laptop, typing out a frenzy. 

“Martin?” Tim asked again when he didn’t answer. Tim tilted his head, but he was pretty sure there weren’t any earbuds hidden beneath his curls. Just wildflowers peeking out here and there. Looking a bit wilted, actually, which only happened when Martin was sick. “You’re awfully focused today.”

His gaze shifted, looking at Martin’s workspace properly for the first time.

“Christ—Martin. What happened to your plants?” The succulents and ferns were withered and riddled with holes, reduced to juicy rot in some places, dripping in viscous tendrils onto his desk.

Finally responsive, Martin looked down. “Nothing?”

“Martin. They’re dead. Leaking. All over your desk.” Tim grimaced as Martin reached for a pen, dragging his hand through the decay.

Martin looked at him in concern. “No…they’re not, Tim. I’m an avatar of the Buried. I’m pretty sure I’d know.”

“Martin are you…are you okay?”

“Are _you_ okay, Tim?” He asked slowly.

Tim did a doubletake. He could swear the plants _moved_. He drew closer, peering over the desk at a relatively safe distance from the reek of the ruined flora. 

“Fuck!” He reeled back a step as he spotted several black-tipped silver worms writhing in the putrid soil. “Christ, what _are_ those?”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, fuck off, Tim. First you imply I can’t take care of my plants, now you’re insulting them?”

“Those are parasites. Can you—can you not _hear_ your plants or something? They can’t be saying anything good.”

Martin’s knuckles went white from the force he was holding his pen with. “I think you should walk away, Tim.”

He had never seen Martin angry before. Frustrated, sure. Annoyed, even. But he’d had no idea the bigger, softer man could hold this kind of venom in him. Instinctually he held out a steadying, defensive hand. “Look—I’m just worried about you’s’all.” 

“Worry about yourself.” Soft. Dangerous. 

“Martin—”

“Shut. Up. Tim.” He looked directly at him then, and Tim staggered back.

Martin’s eyes were wrong. 

Cloudy, like a thin film coated them. As he watched, a worm fell from where it nested in a flower in his hair. He gagged as a second worm wriggled directly out of his ear. 

“ _Jon_ —”

Martin’s ghoulish eyes narrowed and the sound cut off, the air suddenly robbed from his lungs as he choked on It Is Too Close I Cannot Breathe.

Jon burst from his office. “What is all the yelling abou—oh lord. Martin! Martin what are you _doing_. Release Tim immediately.”

Tim could feel his eyes beginning to bulge in his panic as he scrabbled for his throat.

As Jon drew closer, he yelped. “Bloody hell.” 

He put a firm hand on Martin’s shoulder, which he batted away, turning the Buried on him.

Freed, Tim called on the Vast to submerge Martin, pressing the desolate weight of the unyielding ocean around him. Momentarily freed by Martin’s distraction, Jon jerked his chin toward him and began speaking in the lull of the voice he used to soothe prey. 

“Calm down, Martin.” He coaxed. “Stop fighting.” To Tim he said, with a trace of the lull in his voice, “Hold him down. Vast-wise and body-wise.” 

Tim obliged, pressing the weight further around Martin, the oppressive weight of floating in a vacuum that held you in a tight, unfeeling grip. He moved to take over restraining Martin as Jon lowered him carefully to the ground.

“This is—not good.”

“Yes, Jon, I’d say.”

“Alright. I’ll call Basira.”

xxx

Basira picked up on the second ring.

“Little busy at the moment, Archivist.”

“Are you—what is that in the background?”

“That’s Daisy eating a Not!Them.” The sound was atrocious, a ripping and snarling. It said something about himself, he knew, that he wished he was there with his fellow avatar. 

“Is that—that can’t be according to policy.”

“Thing needs killing. And it puts her in a good mood. Now, as evident, I am busy, Sims. What is it?”

“Having a little, uh, situation in the Archives.” He looked down at Martin whose teeth were gritted against the sensation of the Vast. “Martin’s gone a bit…sideways.”

“What, like a panic attack? Don’t be insensitive, Jon.”

“No.” Jon huffed. “I’m not—I know how to handle—anyways he just kind of went off on Tim. And he’s quite, ah, wormy.”

“What.”

“I can See them. Just a few, in the top layers of his skin. I could Hunt them. But HR would be insufferable.” He grimaced, picking a couple worms off of Martin’s honey coloured jumper and squishing them with a paperweight he nabbed from Martin’s desk.

Basira sighed, a harsh exhale. “I’ll send in Agnes.”

“Agnes? Isn’t she a little—”

“Her control’s gotten much better. Mostly burns the things she means to, now.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

“Bye, Jon.” She hung up.

Tim glanced up at him. 

“Someone’s on the way.” Jon relayed. “Agnes.”

“Agnes? Didn’t she singe off a librarian’s eyebrows on accident last week?”

“To be quite frank I don’t think that was an accident, no matter what the official report says.” Jon said absently. 

“They’re inside him.” Tim said blankly, gaze returned to their wayward coworker.

“Yes, I See them.”

“Must be Prentiss, right? Who else?”

“I’d imagine.” 

“Do you—do you think she got the jump on him somehow or is he—do you think he’s an avatar of the Corruption, now?”

They both looked down grimly. Martin looked placid, still under Jon’s influence, but with the eyes it was downright eerie, like they were filmed over in death.

“I don’t…think so.” Jon said slowly. “They’re definitely…consuming…him like they’ve done Jane, but. He still… _smells_ like the Buried.”

“Excuse me?”

“I—one of the abilities of proper avatars of the Hunt is being able to discern between the entities.” Jon looked away. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Ooh, what do I smell like?”

“Tim, this is hardly the time.”

Luckily, Agnes arrived before Jon had to find a way around telling Tim that, to him, he smelled like salt and seaweed. 

“Hello, Jonathan. Timothy.” Agnes glided in, ethereal as ever in her high-necked blouse and the circlet in her dark hair. “Poor Martin.” She said as she crouched, tucking her char-black wings tight against her body. Martin looked at her, gaze unfocused, as she ran the back of her gloved hand over his cheek. 

“You know Martin?” Jon wasn’t aware that Martin knew anyone in Containment other than in passing, delivering files that might warrant reclassification of rogue avatars.

“Oh, yes. We went on a few dates last summer.” She smiled, a sad crescent. “Accidentally set his flowers on fire, just a little. A couple times, actually. Thought it best to part ways until I’m a bit less…combustible.”

Jon was painfully aware his jaw was ajar. He remedied it with a snap as his teeth clicked together.

“You didn’t know?” Tim asked. “I swear, Jon, do you pay attention to anything that happens outside your office?”

“I do so.” Jon huffed. “It was Rosie’s birthday last week. I got her a card.”

“It was Rosie’s birthday in June. She was just being nice.” Agnes murmured as she gently raised Martin’s jumper, revealing several holes in the soft flesh of his stomach with worms just barely visible, little silver glints in the light. “Oh, love. That’s nasty work.”

“I might…actually be sick.” Tim said.

“So what do we do?” Jon asked, a little eager despite himself. He was rigorously disciplined at the Archives—and everywhere else, too, in part because of morals and in part because he really would rather not be executed by Basira—but the itch of the Hunt was always right there underneath his skin, a crawling in his muscles that begged to be used, an ache in his teeth that wished to rend. 

He really needed to get out for a drink with Daisy soon.

“Mm. I’m going to smoke them out, I think.” 

“What? We just discussed why you, Martin, and fire emphatically do not mix.”

“No fire, just smoke. And while I’m concentrating on that, you nab them.”

“Oh. I don’t want to do that.”

“So you’d rather let your charge be eaten alive another day because you let paranormal flesh-eating worms run rampant in your Archives?”

“They will not be allowed to run amok in my domain.” Jon narrowed his eyes as the Hunt spoke through him. He narrowed them further when he realized what Agnes had done. It was no secret that as an avatar of the Hunt, he considered those under him part of his territory, which was as archaic as it was instinctual. 

“Oh, good.” She said mildly. “Then fetch a bin and corral these creepy crawlies in so I can roast them when they’re safely out of Martin.”

Jon begrudgingly did as he was told.

As soon as the smoke that emitted from Agnes’ outstretched fingertips reached Martin, he went haywire. 

“Don’t touch my flowers, they’re mine, they love me.” He cried, struggling against Tim’s hold.

“No one’s going to touch your flowers, Martin. We’re just going to get the worms out.”

“Leave them alone. They’re mine. They’re my flowers and you can’t have them.”

“Any time, now, Agnes.” Tim said through gritted teeth.

She hummed in annoyance as she upped the ante on the smoke, soft tendrils flowing into the holes in Martin’s skin.

“That’s not—that’s not going to damage him, is it?” Jon asked. 

“His lungs are already full of dirt.” Agnes pointed out.

“Yes, well, _that’s_ by design.”

“I don’t think a little smoke inhalation will do him permanent harm, regardless.”

The ground shifted beneath them and they let out varied noises of surprise. 

Martin was sinking into the ground. Through the carpet. A perfectly tailored sinkhole seemed to be forming, leading to God knows where.

“Um.” Tim said, panicked. “I didn’t know avatars of the Buried could go through flooring.” 

“…that’s a—yes, a new one for the file, certainly. We’ll have to follow up on that.” Jon stammered.

“Jon.” 

“Yes, Agnes?”

“Now would be a rather relevant time for your lure.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Martin.” He began in that soothing tone that promised safety.

Martin snarled.

Jon had a comfortable framework that Martin fit in, his precise dimensions, and now it was in shambles. “Oh. Well. That’s different. I wonder if the worms act as a guard—I’ve never tried to put under a hive mind before. And a stimulant—a kind of supernatural steroid. Could certainly explain the uncharacteristic aggression.” Theories. Speculation. That was well-worn territory. Safe, like a patched-up cardigan, and it was basically healthily processing emotions, if you squinted.

The truth was, seeing Martin like this, with the violence in his eyes, was deeply unsettling. Like seeing a grizzly bear claw its way out of the stomach of a teddy bear, or laying your head down only to find your pillow full of knives. And there absolutely wasn’t a baser part of himself that found the unexpected ferocity alluring. There absolutely was not.

“So how are we stopping our teammate from dissolving into the floor again?” Tim asked, a little shrill.

Jon’s thoughts raced. “I, ah—I have something. Martin. Martin look at me.” He did and he did with such a foreign fire. Hm. Had his freckles always been that lovely shade of copper? Jon shook his head. “Look down at your stomach. **_Tell me what you see_**.”

Involuntarily, Martin looked down at his ruined flesh, his stomach torn asunder first in neat holes and then in less precise ones as worms burst out in a fervor to escape from the coiling smoke rooting them out.

“I see…” His voice was strangled, irises still looking curdled. “I see— _oh my god_.”

“Let him up.” Jon said hoarsely. 

Tim looked unsure, but released his dual hold on the other man. Martin immediately turned over and retched. “Get them out get them out _get them out_.”

“In the process.” Agnes said. “Hold still for me, love.”

“My flowers. They’re ruined.” He sobbed as he pulled at fistfuls of his hair, bone dry and slimy petals alike coming out of the sweaty strands.

“Don’t do that, Martin.” Jon said, brows furrowed. It was an uncomfortable pain, seeing him tearing out the flowers that were ever-present in his hair, spoiled though they may be. It was like seeing him naked in a heatless, spiritual manner. Wrong. Barren. 

“He’s panicking. Tim, the worms. Jon, try that party trick again.” Agnes said authoritatively. 

Tim obediently began scooping up worms and flinging them in the metal bin. “Oh my god oh my god. I’m going to have to take an eternal shower after this. I’m going to need to get some new hands.”

“I know a guy who belongs to the Flesh.” Agnes offered earnestly.

Tim shot her an incredulous look.

Jon kneeled next to Martin, reaching out to put a firm hand on his shoulder. Martin looked at it in surprise, blinking, momentarily pausing. This was a lot easier now that Martin was prey again. His voice was chamomile.

“You’re going to be fine. You’re going to grow new flowers. It’s just winter, okay? It’s early winter, a tiny winter before you can have your flowers back. They always come back.” Martin always had a bit of a seasonal depression, when the first frost hit and he mourned his autumn flowers. But he always bounced back with poinsettias and occasionally a truly precious circlet of pinecones and holly—

Martin took a shuddering breath. 

And then he collapsed.


	5. wayward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin recovers at least physically from his episode and the Archives gets a mascot.
> 
> CWs for this chapter: canon typical worms, body horror, mild gore, blood, nightmares, guilt, self deprecation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Martin ever have a nice time? Yes! But not today. This was an incredibly fun chapter to write even though content wise it is objectively a terrible time to be capable of having Emotions. 
> 
> I will say I made myself uncomfortable writing this which I believe is a very good sign when developing a writing voice for horror. But uh,, yeah. Gets gross sorry loves.
> 
> As always thank you for reading! Your comments and encouragement fuel me.

Martin woke up in the infirmary. His head was aching fiercely, his throat was raw, his stomach felt—god, what was that? Gaping, burning. He lifted his jumper—why were there bloodstains on it?—and found his whole stomach was covered in bandages. He lifted one gingerly, slowly, and gasped.

His stomach was riddled with pence-sized holes, raw and stark against his pale skin. His breathing became shallow as he tried to not panic. 

“Welcome back, Martin.” 

He flinched as he turned to face Elias.

“We were worried you might not wake up for quite awhile. Head injuries are rather dicey.”

“Head injury--?” It came back to him slowly, like rivulets of honey dripping down his brain. His flowers rotting in his hair, the worms pouring out of his flesh, the way he had assaulted Tim and Jon. Shame and terror flashed through him, he held himself in defense as much as comfort. “Oh. Oh my god. _Are Tim and Jon_ \--?”

“Perfectly recovered.” Elias said. “You took the brunt of it, I’m afraid.”

“It’s what I deserve.” Martin murmured, almost to himself. “So you’re here to fire me, then?” He said, louder.

Elias tsked. “Well, let’s not get carried away.”

Martin gaped. “I attacked several staff, and used my abilities on them, which is prohibited.” 

“Yes, well. If we were going by that standard, I would have to fire Timothy and Jonathan as well. I’m always fair, after all. However, I’m going to make an exception since in your case, you were influenced by an agent of the Corruption, and in theirs, they acted in self defence.” He paused. “We will, however, have to address the fact that you were not fully forthcoming about the extent of your abilities. Agnes said that you were phasing through the floor.” 

“I didn’t know I could do that.” Martin lied. “Must be some effect of the worms. I could see if I can do it again, without them.” He squirmed at the idea of worms burrowed in his body, chewing themselves deeper and deeper until he was honeycombed like Jane Prentiss. 

Elias tilted his head, smiled wanly. Martin thought he saw a face superimposed over Elias, one with many teeth and many eyes and--“Of course. I’ve commissioned a clean up crew to scour your apartment for any more parasites or other undesirables. I implore you to stay here in the Archives until we’re sure it’s all clear.”

“I—“ Martin began, not entirely sure what was going to come out of his mouth. He didn’t want to stay here at work, but he also had no desire to go back to his infested home, where the worms had somehow escaped his notice. Where they’d infiltrated and piloted his body. Christ. He might be sick.

“We don’t want another repeat of today, do we?” Elias’s smile was almost warm, a softness at the edges, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Martin’s stomach dropped as the guilt crashed over him like a tempest. “Yes. Of course. You’re right.”

“Splendid.” Elias got up. “We’ll need an incident report from you at some point, but really, rest up. Feel free to stay here for a bit. We’ll move you into the storage room with that cot in a while. Certainly not five-star accommodations, but it will do the trick.”

Martin nodded.

Elias looked at the door. “Basira will want to speak to you.” He moved to leave just as Basira was entering the room.

“Elias.” She nodded.

“Captain.” 

Basira strode into the room and they were alone together. “Hello, Martin.”

He couldn’t look her directly in the eye. “Hey, Basira.”

“Wanted to check up on you. Heard you’ve had quite the ordeal. Agnes filled me in. And of course I had to take statements from Tim and Jon.”

He flushed with embarrassment. 

Basira tsked. “Now don’t go like that on me. Avatars have different susceptibilities to other avatars’ abilities. Usually that means the effects are duller than they’d be on a human, but it’s not without precedent that they can have rather adverse effects.”

At that, Martin scoffed humourlessly. “’ _Adverse_.’ Yes, I’d say attempted homicide is quite an adverse effect.”

“Well, they interfered with your flowers, yes? I imagine that guarantees a certain extremity of reaction.”

“Are you implying I am _allergic_ to the Corruption?” He said, incredulous. 

Basira rolled her eyes. “I don’t know Martin. You’re the researcher. I’m the exterminator.”

He gulped at the comparison.

“Now don’t go like _that_ on me. I’m not here to punish you. I’m not reclassifying you or updating your dossier. This was a one-off with extenuating circumstances.”

“Are you so sure about that?” Martin whispered. “What if they get me again?”

“I’ve got Agnes and Daisy on it at your flat, burning and hunting. Rest assured, your home will be safe again.” 

Martin didn’t comment. He’d always be on the lookout, never fully relaxing in his own home again. He’d obsessively scoured his flat after Prentiss had finally gone away, and look how effective that’d been. Worms wriggling and writhing in and out of him. Oh, he really might vomit this time.

“Did I hurt anyone?” He finally asked. He pulled at his jumper, examining the bloodstains. They were few and far between, so he couldn’t have actually hurt anyone very much. Small mercies.

“Hm? Oh, not really. A little more and you could have crushed Tim’s windpipe I’m sure, but he’s quite bounced back. You barely had an affect on Jon, I think you spooked him more than anything. Those are his bloodstains, actually. He’s quite sorry for ruining your jumper.”

“Jon’s?” Martin blanched. Leave it to him to become a meat suit for a hive of worms and attack the man who was the twin daggers of his boss and his hopeless infatuation. 

“Yes, he fed you a bit of his blood. He’s apologetic about that as well. Consent is key and all. You won’t be ship shape for a moment but it will speed the healing process up quite a bit. He also, ah, cauterized your wounds.”

Martin actually squeaked. “He _what_?”

“Yeah, um.” Basira flushed up from her chin to the edge of her hijab. “Yeah.” 

It was one thing to have your immortal-adjacent monster boss feed you his blood to speed up your recovery—he brushed his lips absently, they came away clean—but it was quite another to have him _lick your fucking wounds like a wolf_. Vampire saliva was known to seal wounds and act as an antibacterial. Which was fine enough if you were being fed on by wrist or neck. Martin had always balked at the idea, but Tim occasionally took advantage of it, once bothering Jon until he cleaned where he'd punctured his hand with a rusty nail. _Oh, you’ll let me die of the tetanus, then?_ Jon had grumbled before, during, and after, but did it all the same, because he’d rather not _report it as a workplace injury_. It had been clinical.

_But not fucking burrows in your stomach._

“I really might faint.”

“Please do not.”

“I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again.”

“Unfortunate. You could—you know what, this is a very odd situation and I have no idea how you’d possibly approach it and I don’t want to get involved. Anyways, glad to see you’re yourself again and not being eaten alive.” She nodded brusquely and left.

“Ding dong!” Tim waltzed in moments later, followed closely by Sasha. Apparently Martin was receiving a parade today, when he’d much rather be all alone, or unconscious, or, ideally, nonexistent.

“Hey.” Martin said weakly. 

“How are we doing, superstar?” Tim asked cheerily.

“Well. I’m, uh, not full of worms.”

“Well that is an improvement!”

“Yeah.” Martin managed a half-smile.

“Look what I brought!” Sasha exclaimed, holding up what Martin now saw to be a cat, if a cat was nearly covered in eyes.

“What is that?” 

“This is Poe! Turns out the many-eyed cat at the pound was in fact a manifestation of our very own Watcher. Neat, huh? They waived the adoption fees and practically—” She laughed, a distorted, echoing mirth. “No, they _literally begged_ me to take him. He’s named after Edgar Allen Poe, for that one story about the guy who kills a cat and it haunts him.” 

“And…Jon is okay with this.” He said numbly. 

The cat blinked at him with so many eyes, not all at the same time, an unsettling series of movements against its black fur. He noticed now that there were wisps of shadow curling off it like smoke. 

“Well, no.” Tim said. “But I suggested that the Institute’s patron would not appreciate us sending its poor, adorable creature out into the cold.”

“That was dirty of you.” 

Sasha held up….Poe. “Are you saying you would send this lovely, eldritch kitty out into the night, uncared for, abandoned to the hard life of the streets?”

Martin shook his head. “If you ever asked for a puppy for Christmas, you would have gotten it.”

“Pony, actually.” She smiled mischievously as she came over and dumped the cat on his lap. He looked up at him with a tilt to his head, then, apparently finding Martin suitable, curled into his lap, making a terrible sound like a creaking door, which he supposed passed for purring. 

“We’re about to make a trip to your flat. What would you like us to bring back for you? We’re also stopping by the market. We want your stay here to be as cosy as possible.”

“Oh, that’s—that’s rather kind of you.” Martin thought, petting Poe, careful to avoid his myriad of eyes, which actually shut obligingly for Martin to stroke over. “I’d appreciate my blankets, if you would. There’s three of them, but don’t get them if it’s too much trouble—they’re weighted.” As an avatar of the Buried, he preferred to be as bundled as possible. He’d prefer actually being in the ground, but Elias had distastefully told him he’d ‘rather not’ when Martin showed up with mud streaked across his face and hands and kept tracking soil into the Institute. Alas, they all sacrificed something of themselves to protect the interests of their patrons by working with the Institute. “If you could bring some of my plants and jumpers, I’d really appreciate it.”

“We could manage all of them. Your plants.” Sasha offered, twirling her auburn dreads through her fingers. 

“No, thank you. I’d rather some stay behind to watch over the place. If you’ll just put a couple of the hardier ones outside and tell them where I am. They’ll understand.” Plants were rather independent despite common belief, so he wasn’t too worried, but he’d miss them just the same.

“What do you want to eat?”

“Oh, whatever ready meals. Some more tea for the breakroom, too. I can survive off of anything really.” He only needed to stay hydrated and get a bit of sun for his flowers, and considering his stomach was full of topsoil and gravel, it did not take much to keep him going. 

Tim nodded. “Right, then. Let’s be off.” 

“Sorry to miss the excitement, but I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Sasha reached over to ruffle his hair, avoiding the new buds nestled there. “Would hate to lose you to the filth.”

“Thanks.” He was fully aware he deserved neither her concern nor affection, but he allowed himself to be warmed by it. He really needed something to hold onto.

“Ditto. And don’t beat yourself up too much about trying to kill me.” Tim called over his shoulder, tactless as ever, but somehow comforting in his transparency. “We all get a bit homicidal on occasion, eh?”

It was Tim’s brash way of letting Martin know he was forgiven. He tried hard to believe it. He tried harder to feel like he was worthy of such grace.

He followed Elias’s suggestion of resting a bit longer in the infirmary. Poe curled up beside him as he stretched out on the narrow bed. He must have dozed, because one moment he was awake, and then another, Jon was there as if by magic. He scrambled into a sitting position, Poe voicing his displeasure with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. This cat, cute and monstrous as he was, was going to take a hell of an adjustment to have around.

“Martin.” Jon acknowledged evenly.

“H-hey Jon. How are you?” Martin mentally fed himself to a blackhole. What a dumb thing to ask after he’d gone all Exorcist on him. 

“I ran into Sasha and Tim on their way out. They said you were awake.” 

Martin didn’t know what to say to that. Yep, there he was, conscious, thanks for witnessing?

“Wanted to make sure you were alright. Well, as alright as you can be.” Jon looked suddenly discomfited. “It’s my duty after all, as your supervisor.”

Ah. There it was. That made sense of it all. Jon felt responsible in some fashion for his wellbeing.

“Just peachy.” He held up Poe. “I have a cat. Well, something that looks like a cat.”

Jon sighed, exasperated. “Yes. That. Tim convinced me to let it stay. Something about ‘prove there’s a heart in your cold undead chest, that you would not subject this cat to being an urchin and beggar.’ I just agreed so he’d shut up. I intend to let it loose on the Library. Their problem then.” He stood. “Well, now that I know you’re okay. I’m going to get back to work.” He paused on his way out the door. “Sorry about the whole blood thing. Could tell a couple of worms had made their way in and caused a smidge of internal bleeding. Also, those burrows are going to leave scars. Couldn’t avoid that.”

He left before Martin could conjure any kind of response. 

Later that day, once he’d been moved into the Archival offices--going slowly as he adjusted to the tenderness in his stomach--a three-eye crowed alighted on the stack of boxes he was using as a night table. It allowed Martin to stroke its feathers as he plucked the envelope from its beak.

_Please fill out forms A, C, and H in regards to today’s incident. The Institute will not be providing financial reconciliation as per policy prohibiting conducting unauthorized field work and taking unnecessary risk outside of the expected occupational hazards._

_Stop that._

_-Ingrid Stark, HR._

“Financial reconciliation,” Martin knew, was code for worker’s comp and bribes. 

He laughed, somewhat hysterically. _All this trauma, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt._

Once his laughter had subsided, he was alone with the heavy weight of exhaustion, the needling reminders of everything that had transpired. He clutched chamomile in his hands, held close as he lay in the dark.

His legs kicked at the phantom sensation of silver bodies winding over him.

He dreamed of being dragged up from the earth by Jane Prentiss, who was more holes than flesh. She opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue had been eaten through. 

Martin opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a torrent of worms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look. Look. I don't like what happened with Jon. Hate it. 100/10 would be mortified. But insofar as this is an experiment with horror and discomfort, I am Delighted.


	6. a safe place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daisy makes an appearance and Martin has an almost nice time, as a treat.
> 
> CWs for this chapter: reliving trauma, oh you know, The Worms, Insensitivity, Mild Gore (Mention).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello sweet beans! I have figured out, in broad strokes, how I'm adapting the canon arcs for this fic. I am hype for all the very good and very bad things to come.

“Morning, Jon.” Martin said as he set the kettle on for a morning cuppa. He was entirely too comfortable walking round the break room in stocking feet and sweatpants. “Did you sleep well? Er—did you sleep?”

A week in and Jon had still not gotten any kind of used to having Martin living in his Archives. The Archives. Of course. He was sure Elias knew that he’d been using that room himself on occasion—well, many occasions—when he worked late. Had he done it just to annoy him? If he had, it had been extremely effective. He could no longer sleep in the Archives unless he threw his legs over the armchair in his office that even he was not compact enough to use comfortably. So he’d been forced to go home at night, which made him disproportionately bitter. 

“I did not, in fact, sleep last night.” He had been up cobbling together a workspace in his flat, somewhere with sufficient space to sprawl out his statements and cassettes and files and—

He needed Martin’s flat to stop having inconvenient supernatural worms. He wanted his Archives back. That was, of course, something he had to keep in check—the Archives was part of his territory, yes, and the Hunt certainly did not mind him having that. But to tie himself too deeply to the Eye was always a concern at the fringes of his mind. He was, after all, the Hunt’s territory.

“Oh. Well. Hope you had a nice time…being awake.” Martin’s voice petered out in a mumble at the end. 

Poe wound between Jon’s legs, mewling insistently—which was more like the sound of glass shattering softly in the distance—and did not relent until he bent down and begrudgingly pet him, if only to stop the horrid noise. Satisfied with the paid homage, Poe wandered over to Martin, who picked him up readily. 

“I’m glad you’ve decided to, ah, tolerate Poe.” Martin said as the infernal creature nuzzled into the crook of his neck. The shadowy wisps of his tail—probably his tail? It was difficult to tell where the sort-of cat began and ended, with all the wisps coming off it—flicked back and forth, content.

“A generous statement.” Jon said dryly. “I’ve left him in the Library several times. He always finds his way back.”

“I really don’t understand why you loathe him. Look at him.” Martin glanced down, imploring. “He is a good kitty.” Poe blinked up affectionately at Martin with half his eyes.

“I’ve met better.” Jon grumbled as he made his way to the communal fridge and retrieved a bag of blood, pouring it thickly into his mug, a chipped thing with the picture of an upside down bat with the caption ‘not a morning person,’ or ‘a personal at all’ Georgie had quipped when she’d given it to him years back, when they were still a thing. She’d taken the vampire thing rather well, but her time with the End was quite an inoculation against fear. She was actually drawn to that aspect of him, considering her being on first name basis with Death. He idly thought of the Admiral, Georgie’s cat, who was, by far, a better cat than Poe. He was a distinguished gentleman. Poe was not even a cat. More of a cat-shaped spectre. 

“You drink that stuff cold?” He glanced up to see Martin looking at the sludgy blood in fascination and disgust.

“It’s like coffee, I suppose.” He said as he took a sip. “Iced coffee or hot coffee. It’s all coffee.”

Martin did not look convinced.

“Are you going to require a dissertation or may I have my breakfast in peace?” He asked dryly. 

Martin blushed thoroughly. “Yes that was rude of me. Sorry. I’ll-I’ll go now.” He left the breakroom, Poe batting at his newly blossomed flowers as he went. Jon noted that they appeared to be sprigs of forget-me-nots, arranged more in a crown than dotted throughout like he typically—Wore? Grew? Why was he even thinking about the—anatomy? For fuck’s sake—of the Green Man?

He drank in silence as he leaned against the counter. Things had become unfortunate, indeed. He was fairly certain Martin could not do him permanent harm—though he could make things quite inconvenient by filling his lungs with flora and soil or burying him—ha—undead. But the whole ordeal left an awkward undertone to their interactions, one that did not improve with the layer added by him tending to his wounds. It had been a rather clinical experience on his end, but he was aware it could be—by human standards—received as something decidedly not. Tim had been teasing him about it for days now. 

“Not as romantic as it is on film, eh?” He’d said. “Grateful I didn’t have any flesh wounds.”

“I would have let you bleed out.” Jon had replied dryly.

“Favouring Martin then?” He’d volleyed back slyly, a distinct sharpness to his smile.

Tim was, Jon concurred, insufferable, the monster equivalent of a barb stuck in your heel. Unfortunately he was also quite good at his job and Jon _liked_ him despite it all. He was sure it was some part of his Siren charm, but in theory they all had to play by mortal rules with each other. 

The devil himself arrived an hour later, Sasha close behind.

“Morning boss.” Tim said cheerily. 

“Timothy.” He acknowledged.

“So cold.” He said as an aside to Sasha.

“He is dead, you know.” Sasha stage-whispered back. “Don’t be insensitive.”

“Undead.” Jon corrected, glaring. He did run cold, even with the blood warming him from the inside out. He was always wearing layers, a cocoon of sweater vests and scarves and the like.

Martin reemerged in passably professional clothes, Tim made a comment about how nicely his flowers were growing in which left him beaming—see? Jon wasn’t the only one who noticed—and they all feel into the comfortable pattern of a work day. 

Mike Crew dropped by with a memo from Basira letting him know Martin’s flat was officially, definitively free of worms, which was the best news he could have gotten that day. Jon almost commented on the inefficiency of her not just sending an email or text, but through his open office door he caught the wink Tim gave him on his way out.

Oh.

He was well aware of Tim’s preferences—which, he’d at one point put himself was ‘equal opportunity’ because ‘no one should be deprived of the opportunity to experience’ him—but he hadn’t known they were a thing. He wondered if it was a passing fling between fellow Avatars or something serious. It was irrelevant at the end of the day, but the great worm debacle of yore made it apparent there were many things he didn’t know about what went on in the Institute and his very Archives, which was unacceptable. He didn’t particularly _care_ for the specifics, but he didn’t like not knowing what was going on in his domain.

Later that day, Daisy dropped by, sprawling on the armchair tucked away in the corner of his office. Now she was one of the few people he was genuinely pleased to see, and it wasn’t just because they were beholden to the same patron. 

“I thought you should know Jude Perry has made it to the extermination list.” 

“ _Jude Perry_.” He practically hissed. “About time.” He had an extremely personal desire for her blood all over his hands. 

She had, after all, burned one of them beyond healing.

He glanced down at the very hand, the uneven scar tissue fissured across it.

“Yes, I agree. I did advocate for it since she burned down that hospital ward, but she sealed the deal herself when she took out a primary school.” 

“She _what_.”

“Yeah, terrible from all angles, but an emissary from the Lightless Flame relayed that she would no longer be under their protection. I wish I could say it was from a sense of morals but uh, the body count finally outweighed the harvest of so much fear.”

“Yes, well. She is about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the skull.” 

“I thought you should also know—that does not mean it’s open season on her to the general monster public.” 

“And this is coming from Basira?” 

Daisy drummed her claws over her knee. “Yes.”

“And she knows—”

“Yes, she knows. Of course she knows.”

“By rights Jude is my quarry.”

“Basira does not honour the rights of the Hunt.” 

“Then I’ll make her honour them.” He said through gritted teeth.

Daisy gave him a weighty look. “That would be very ugly for everyone involved.”

“Is there a good argument for me caring? Why does it even matter if it’s me or not? Dead is dead.” And if he had any hand in it, she would be very, very dead.

“For one, you don’t have a license to kill other Avatars except in self defence, not personal crusades. For two, you are on the payroll for your brain, not fang. For three, Basira will escalate your dossier. For four, it would add drama to my life that I really don’t deserve I’ve been a very good werewolf.”

“You ate a Not!Them.” Jon scowled.

“In the line of duty.” Daisy put a hand to her heart. “Certainly, for crown and country. I derived no pleasure.”

Jon narrowed his eyes.

Daisy burst out laughing. “Yeah, it was awesome.” 

“So you get to flaunt about with unnecessary carnage, and I, who actually has a personal stake in the affair, can not be granted a little murder?”

“Do you realize how funny it is to hear a vampire say ‘personal stake.’ You should probably avoid all of those.” She grinned.

Jon rolled his eyes, the tension evaporated. “You’re terrible. Don’t you have a tree to piss on somewhere?”

She flipped him off, before rising. She crossed the room and deposited a kiss on his forehead. 

“I’ll eat her for you, if you’d like.” She offered him a savage grin.

“Thoughtful. I’ll consider it.”

She left and he sat in his thoughts. Jude was his to kill. Consequences be damned and damned again.

He was disrupted, as usual, by Martin. He was holding two mugs, which invariably held tea. 

“Saw Daisy was in, made her a cup, too, but I guess I’m too late.” He shrugged. “Mine, then. I’ll have a mug for each hand.” He left one of the mugs on the closest available space on Jon’s desk, as he always did. 

“Thank you.” He said, perfunctory. 

Martin paused, and Jon wondered if he sensed something was deeply amiss. He shook his head, then left. Thank god for small mercies.

The rest of the day unspooled slowly and then dissolved all at once—Tim and Sasha donned their coats and left their reports on his desk on their way out. Martin, of course, neglected to turn in his, which Jon had half a mind to track him down and demand, but it was technically after hours and Martin was in for the night—oh. Jon had yet to tell him the news that his flat was cleared for him to move back in.

It wasn’t unreasonably late, so he walked down to the storage room and rapped on the door, and then again when his summons went unanswered. Martin opened the door. “Oh, hey. Hope you haven’t been out here long. Sorry. I’ve been writing.”

“Can you not hear when you write?” 

Martin almost rolled his eyes, but seemed to catch himself during his side glance. “I had music on. Did you not pick that up? I would think human senses would suffice, let alone vampiric.”

Was he—was Martin backtalking him? Jon couldn’t recall a time when Martin had spoken to him like that before. The surprise wore off quickly, however, when his words caught up to him. He scowled.

“I just wanted to let you know that Containment is through with your flat. You’re free to move back in.” 

“Oh.” Martin shuffled in place. “I. Ah. That’s good, then.”

Jon tilted his head. “You are not acting like that is good.”

“I just—” Martin cast his gaze down to his feet. “My flat may be ready but I don’t think—I don’t think I am.”

“What?” He was supposed to be relieved. He was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to vacate Jon’s room.

“It’s just—I didn’t even know they were there. The worms. I had no idea. And then I had no idea they were— _they were inside me, Jon_. Do you know what that’s like? Do you have any idea?”

Oh. Oh no. They were about to talk about _feelings_. He allowed himself three per year and avoided discussing others’ at all costs. It was times like this he wished he could actually turn into a bat. Bats could not talk about feelings. Bats could not speak English.

“And once I—once I realized, I could feel them. I could feel them in there, like I was some hotel, and I couldn’t do anything about it. And I—I still feel them sometimes.” Martin shivered and his eyes were uncomfortably bright. Oh no. No, Jon would not allow both feelings _and_ crying.

“Now that I’m Looking, I can definitively tell you they’re gone Martin.”

Martin breathed out a long, shuddering breath. “That helps. But it doesn’t change the fact that I feel it, like their ghosts are in there, crawling about.”

Jon let out a matching exhale. “Yes. Alright. Stay as long as—as long as you need.”

“Thanks.” Martin said, just above a whisper. 

Jon just hummed in response. “I’ll let Elias know in the morning.” He paused. “Goodnight, Martin.” 

“’Night, Jon.” Martin retreated back into what Jon now begrudgingly acknowledged was his haven.

He trundled back to his office and gathered up his things, sighed, and put them right back down. 

He took a swig from his flask, curled up in his armchair, and settled in for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for reading and supporting me and this lil story. Your comments brighten my day and help me chug through the little moments of writer's block that come my way. <3


	7. the stranger's a real bender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin comforts a statement-giver and Sasha has way too much fun watching Jonathan Sims fall apart.
> 
> CWs this chapter: minor self harm, secondhand embarrassment, jokes at another's expense, mention of past trauma and, as always, our cherished canon-typical worms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this world, all the avatars react differently to other avatars. Typically that means the effects they'd have on humans are muted, but sometimes things get a little...odd. 
> 
> Jonathan should maybe take some antihistamines whenever he encounters the Stranger.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! Your feedback fuels my weary spirit and y'all have me laughing. Be safe be well <3

The woman in the seating area of the Archival Offices was digging half-moons into her wrists. 

Martin brought a mug of tea over, hoping it would help settle her nerves, or at least get her to stop trying to claw through her own flesh.

“Thought you might want for some chamomile.” He said softly. He knew when to turn down the brightness.

She looked up at him, but he wasn’t so sure she really _saw_ him. He put down the mug on the small end table beside her and took a seat one over from her, giving her a bit of space.

“Have you finished filling your forms out, then?” He asked, nodding to the clearly blank sheets on the clipboard. Each walk-in to the Institute had to fill out a brief recount of whatever sordid experience brought them in before they met with Jon for a recorded statement. Martin had recorded one once or twice, whenever Elias forced Jon to take a day off. He hated it. It sent spiders down his spine. He felt like the subject and him were not in a room at all. There was—it was—it was slippery in his brain, the experience, the closest he could come to describing it to himself, to nailing it down, was that it was like stepping into an Impressionist painting, but if the painting hated you.

“Couldn’t hold the pen straight.” The woman murmured. 

“Ah.” Martin said. “Would you like—would it help if you described it to me? And I could write it down for you.” It wasn’t conventional, Jon would hate it, say something like ‘ _it’s less organic_ ’—but Jon always missed the organic parts that actually _mattered_ , didn’t he? There was a reason Martin just so happened to be in the office most of the time statement givers came in. He’d put off fieldwork for it many times before. He’d lied to Jon with a straight face and a clear conscience, tossing out reasons like ‘ _visiting hours don’t start until four_ ’ or ‘ _he wasn’t at home, actually_.’ It was to his benefit that because he was a disaster at his job—he could hardly blame Jon for his frustrations, he had lied his way into the Institute, after all—Jon expected him to be a disaster at most other things.

“I think—yes, I’d like that.”

“Consider it a warm-up, eh?” He smiled. 

“That bad, you think?” The woman’s nails went deeper and he rushed to elaborate.

“I just find it helps to unravel experiences like this a bit at a time.” He explained. “I’ve been in your place.”

“You’ve—you’ve been through something—this kind of _wrong_ , and you work here?” Her eyes darted around the office.

“Yes, well. I’m the type that feels better getting to the bottom of things.” Patently untrue. He personally loved to not confront the things that dragged themselves through his dreams. He would be perfectly content to scrub the sensation of worms in the meat of his muscles right out of his brain. 

She nodded uncertainly.

“Let’s start with a name, then. Easiest part, eh?”

Apparently not, as the woman began to shake in place.

“I don’t know it.” She whispered. “Why don’t I know it?” Her volume ticked upward.

“We’ll revisit that one. What was your encounter like? Remember, just the big picture. The biggest big picture. So far out the earth looks like a marble.”

“I—there was a man. Or, he looked like a man. No that’s not right. He had too many faces to be a man. But he visited my shop—I run a combination crystal and antique store—and he said ‘I’ve been watching you. So many beautiful pieces in here. The craftsmanship—’ and he sighed, then, like he’d held his breath for years—‘but by far, the best piece is you. Would you mind if I took your face? It will go to a loving home. I’m expanding my collection, you see. Adding some harmonies to the melody, if you will.’ And he stepped toward me and I had nowhere to run, but the running was all ready in my legs you know—And then he was reaching out and touching my cheek and I had the strangest thought—that maybe, maybe it wasn’t _my_ cheek after all.” She paused. “Oh. That was—that was not as dreadful as I was expecting. You’re quite easy to talk to.” She glanced up. “I think the flowers help. Hard to feel unsafe around.”

“Thank you.” He relaxed a fraction as her hands moved down to the hem of her sweatshirt. He picked the pen up from the side table, nestling the clipboard in his lap. “Shall I just put ‘encounter with a strange man who said he wanted to take your face—which led to an out-of-body experience and a memory lapse, which, by the way, is quite reasonable after such a traumatic event.”

“Yes that sounds good. That sounds—yes, that sounds much better than it feels in my head.”

The door to Jon’s office opened. “I’m ready for you Miss—” He frowned at the paper in his hands.

“Just ‘miss’ for now.” Martin said, offering their Jane Doe an encouraging smile.

She got up and found her footing after a moment or two. 

“Would you—would you like to take one with you?” Martin asked before she’d made it to the office door.

She looked at him, confused. Jon looked at him, also confused, but impatient.

“A good luck charm.” He said as he picked a wildflower from his hair. “You said they make you feel a smidge better, yeah?”

She took the flower in a hand that was only slightly trembling. She didn’t seem quite capable of smiling at the moment, understandably, but she dipped her chin in gratitude and clutched the flower to her chest as she followed behind Jon. 

When the door closed, he snagged his bag off the back of his chair, grabbed the file he’d abandoned, and made his way for the train. If he didn’t hurry he’d truly miss visiting Dr. Renfield where he now resided at Morning Glory Residency, a live-in care facility quite a ways away. He also just wanted to get out of the Archives until the edge of Miss’s statement wore off.

Jon always got a bit sideways after a statement about the Stranger.

xxx

Tim narrowed his eyes. “Stranger statement?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Sasha said with delight. “I can See the mark all over him.”

Tim winced. “You don’t have to be so excited about it.”

“As if you don’t get an extra bounce in your step when he’s done one for the Vast.”

“I have a sense of _decorum_ about it. And my patron only makes him kind of lose his footing. A case of sea legs or the sense that he’s somehow adrift. Well, and sometimes he has to stand in place for awhile until the vertigo passes.” Tim took a sip of the tea Martin had left him on his way out. Martin had a habit of timing tea perfectly for them no matter where or when they were. Sasha knew for a fact Tim had been in the Library, sat amidst a small fort of books on architecture. He’d been vying for Leitner to let him read one of his, well, _Leitners_ , one that apparently led to buildings that were not there. Sasha had stolen it for him a few days ago and was simply waiting for the most entertaining time to give it to him. 

“I don’t feel the need to be subtle about it. You know for a fact he enjoys it. Maybe not some of the after-bits, the side effects, but in the moment he quite literally eats it all up. Win-win in my opinion.” 

Case in point, Jon exited his office, looking a bit more—vibrant, somehow. He was typically well-fed in the traditional blood sense, so he really didn’t have much of a chance to take on a pallor, exactly, but there was a whole other dimension the statements added to him. The woman he’d been taking the statement of left the offices quickly, looking both relieved and unsettled. “I’m Lydia. I’m Lydia.” She muttered on her way out.

“Don’t look so satisfied, Sasha.” He glared at her, static underlying his voice. He was feeling at his face oddly, frowning at his fingers, and Sasha was sure he wasn’t convinced any of it was really there. 

“So you’re the only one who gets to?”

“I’m not dealing with this.” His eyes took on a strange sheen and she knew that he was now seeing things that were _not_ actually there. Avatars took to other avatar’s rival abilities differently. Jon was particularly susceptible to the Stranger. Her theory was that it was antithetical to Knowing—it was a mosaic of lies and illusions and unraveling reality. The buffer was that he didn’t see horrors, which was not as fun for her, in a Stranger way, but preferable, in a friend way.

The effect was quite endearing, actually, like watching a mate softly drunk, or on a peaceful acid trip. 

“I’m sitting down.” He declared.

“But are you _really_?” Sasha asked.

“Hey! You keep your teeth normal proportions.” Jon threatened, which would have been marginally more impressive if he wasn’t sliding down the wall and sprawling out.

“I will when you do.” She volleyed back. 

“You know—I never considered it before—but Martin is the only one here with normal teeth.” Jon mused, head flopping to one side as he tracked the movements of something that was not there. “Sasha, of course, wins the crown, but Tim you’re pretty close with the shark teeth. I just have boring vampire teeth.”

“I could fix that.” Sasha offered. 

Tim cut in when it looked like Jon was seriously considering it.

“Jon, you’re statement drunk, go lie down.” 

“I am _not_. I am a _professional_.” He said indignantly, reaching to straighten the tie he was not actually wearing. His head whipped around then and he got a troublesome look in his eye.

Well, sometimes trips went south.

“Hey.” Tim warned. “You are not chasing fake things through the Archives.” 

“Oh, just a little?” Sasha implored. 

Tim just looked at her in response, one of their little looks that were practically Shakespearean monologues. 

Sasha had been the only one in the office once when Jon got a little Strange, and she had been perfectly content to let him loose on the Institute. She was being a sober sister, of course. They were friends, after all. But she was quite adept at having her cake and eating it, too. Temporal shifts were rather useful. Tim, however, was extremely put out to encounter Jon in the breezeway, who confused him for well, a person he would _not_ mind Hunting, and Sasha had had to step in before either of them drew blood. First of all, because of hurt feelings, and second of all, though Jon had impeccable control, he did not inspire confidence while literally on the prowl to tear the throats out of imaginary prey.

“Spoilsport.” She said when he was through. “Tim’s right, Jon. Up.” She crossed the room, bent down, and offered her _very normal thank you much_ hand. When he was unresponsive, she grabbed his hand. When he tugged his hand back, she rolled her eyes and used her real hands, fingers extending with impossible joints. She pulled him to his feet and threw him over her shoulder. 

“Unhand me.” He demanded. 

She just tsked in response.

“I am your boss and—and you must do as I say.”

“Your authority is rather diminished in this moment, I’d say. Only one of us is perceiving reality and it is not you.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” He asked, voice lowering in suspicion.

Ugh. Sasha hated the paranoia phase. Far less antics, far more uninteresting questions. On occasion he did come up with a particularly good conspiracy theory, like that Elias had a secret eye in the middle of his forehead, exclusively crab-walked when no one else was around, and was plotting to eat the moon.

Which was ridiculous. He had many more eyes than that, would never do something so undignified, and while he was plotting, she could _feel_ the deceit in him, lies like satin on his lips, she was fairly certain it was not to eat the moon. 

She commandeered Martin’s cot, dumping her cargo unceremoniously. She then sat at the foot of the bed, knees to chest, and settled in for at least an hour of Jon talking about the Bermuda Triangle.

When Martin got back a couple hours later, the surprise melted off his face quickly as he looked between Jon and Sasha. Jon was fast asleep, cocooned in one of his weighted blankets.

“You should have seen him when Poe came in. He yelped. Said he had more teeth than could fit in a cat’s mouth and that there were hands in his smoke.” Sasha laughed. “Did you know Poe could do that?”

Martin sighed.

“I was really hoping he wouldn’t find out.”

“We’ll take credit for this one. Pro bono.” She smiled, rising, as her door that wasn’t appeared. “Your turn. He’ll probably be sober when he wakes up. You could be nice and let him do that on his own time. Or. You could just roll him off.”

She already knew which he would choose. She walked through the door, following the labyrinth to Michael. 

Finally, someone who knew how to have fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am enamored with the idea of Sasha still being the most competent and put-together of the team but being essentially a chaotic Fae Queen since she's become an avatar.
> 
> I would say I'm sorry Jon but I am really, really not. Be humbled.


	8. a nice thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we all just love Martin, really. 
> 
> CWs this chapter: mention of past trauma, some good good worms, blood and blood consumption, mentions of physical violence, references to tight spaces and claustrophobia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See I told you Martin would have a nice time eventually!! ............For now.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to TiamatisObscure, because they made a comment about Jon needing to text Georgie before doing literally anything and I nearly howled. So here is Jon being a good horror and texting Georgie.

Jon had assumed he’d go out in a blaze of well—probably not glory, but Something, battered and with blood in his teeth.

But it turned out he would actually die hungover from the Stranger.

He held his head in his hands, groaning muffled by the fabric of—what was this? He wriggled out from where he had dove deep under the covers, where the light couldn’t touch him. As soon as he peeked out, he missed the dark, soft, heavy cave he’d had pressing in on him. He looked around blearily in the blackened room. 

There was the sound of breathing coming from below. He looked over the side of the cot—it was Martin, sprawled out on the hard storage room floor, feet poking out from where he was bundled in two of the weighty comforters. 

“Why am I…in Martin’s bed?” He whispered to himself. He clutched at his chest in a sudden panic, unreeling his memories. No…okay, no. He and Martin—they hadn’t—Jon exhaled a long, shuddering breath. That would be ridiculous. Incredulous. He remembered, vaguely, as if through gauze, sitting on the floor of the office—of Sasha—Sasha—He growled, the sound low in his throat. He would be talking to her about throwing him over her shoulder like a fucking bag of potatoes. 

He rubbed his eyes fiercely, winced as he extricated himself from the bed. He took a step and nearly shouted when he felt something wrap around his ankle. Dozens of luminous eyes with no pupils glowed dimly from the floor. He’d trod on and woken Poe. The cat glared up at him, his lips peeling back in a sharp hiss. 

“It was an _accident_.” Jon whispered furiously, wary of waking Martin.

The cat blinked, unmoved, and curled around itself in layers of smoke, settling down next to Martin’s head. Jon looked between Poe, Martin, and the door. He could sneak out easily enough. He wouldn’t be a predator worth his salt if he couldn’t slip noiselessly about. But he found he felt—he felt bad, he discovered in wonder. Martin shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor just because Jon couldn’t hold his…Stranger. But he absolutely did not want to transfer the other man back into his bed. It would be weird. Right? It would be weird. Flustered, he did what he always did when he hit a social wall he could not maneuver.

He texted Georgie.

_Georgie._

_hey Sharp-Tooth. what’s up?_

_Stop that at once. I am not a dinosaur._

_OK, Nosferatu._

_Georgina._

_you seem urgent what’s up._

_I have a conundrum._

_when do u not._

_Georgie. Focus._

_alright alright. what is it?_

_I have inadvertently found myself in Martin’s bed._

_Ooh, zesty._

_NOT LIKE THAT. I was um…incapacitated. And now I am not._

_OK so leave?_

_He’s on the floor. And it seems…untoward of me to leave him so._

_and the question is??_

_I don’t want to touch him. How immoral is it to nudge him awake and compel him to go to bed._

_Um Very. isn’t that against the rules there anyways?_

_Extenuating circumstances._

_this is not an emergency._

_My heart rate says otherwise. Should I just leave him._

_Chrissake Jon. he was just eaten by worms he does not deserve the floor._

_Ugh. Fine. What should I do._

_:)_

_Oh no I’m not going to like this._

_br i d a l c a r r y._

_Absolutely not._

_I mean it’s that or learn to levitate can u do that._

_…Not that I’m aware of._

_Jon. Jon that was not a serious inquiry. … really though, you don’t have many options to get him from point A to point B. isn’t this the one you licked re: aforementioned worms can you really go lower than that._

_Georgina!_

_and it meant nothing, right? you were helping out a friend._

_‘Friend’ is generous._

_be nice I like him. he is a nice and good flower boy. regardless, just think of it like that. it means nothing. just helping out your ‘fellow associate.’ better?_

_Adequate. Bloody hell. OK thank you._

_good night you horror._

_‘Night._

Jon tucked his phone away in his back pocket. He could do this. He had done much greater, terrible feats. 

He hated this.

He sighed, bending and ignoring Poe’s protests as he peeled back the covers and scooped Martin up. He thought he might be able to get this over with and make a clean getaway, but, of course, Martin, even in his sleep, had to muck things up.

“Jon?” He murmured, eyes still clouded with sleep.

“You’re dreaming.” 

“Must be.” He sighed, turning his face into Jon’s shoulder. “Jonathan Sims isn’t nice.” Jon felt his warm breath against the fabric of his dress shirt. 

There was a curious sensation in his stomach. Like a stone settling at the bottom. He had no idea why. He was well aware he was not a nice person. Not a warm person. And, in fact, not a person at all. Maybe it was the dead of night, the unvarnished truth coming from half-asleep lips. He shook his head. He deposited Martin on top of the covers and turned round to pick up the two blankets on the floor. He hefted them as easily as he had Martin—Martin had been awkward cargo, not in weight but composition. Jon was strong, but he knew he was this side of scrawny regardless, all lean muscle, and it was hard to maneuver someone taller than him. He lay the blankets over the bigger, softer man, and Martin did the rest, immediately burrowing under until he was completely cut off from the outside world.

He found his flask on the makeshift night table, with a memo in Martin’s scrawl. 

_Figured you’d need this once you were back with the living. Well. You know._

His long fingers slid over the cool metal. He picked it up, took several short, urgent swigs, and immediately started to feel better with the feeling of blood sliding across his tongue. He tucked the flask into his vest pocket and closed the door gently behind him. 

xxx

Jon stared at the plant proffered to him. “Why are you brandishing a cactus at me?”

“We’re surprising Martin.” Sasha explained.

Tim and her were standing in front of his desk.

“Whatever for? And why does that include me receiving a cactus?”

“We should have done it ages ago, when he first moved in, but we only thought to do it now. We wanted to get him some plants for his desk, pay respects to the ones that Prentiss ruined.”

“Is he not capable of obtaining his own plants? I saw a couple on his desk earlier, anyways. I think he’s moved on.”

“It’s the thought, Jon.” Tim said. “And it’s not like us, where we get a plant, kill a plant, and move on to the next poor, damned thing. Martin has a more intimate relationship with plants. He must still be grieving.”

Jon cocked his head. That hadn’t occurred to him. He was extremely pragmatic, so he’d assumed Martin would just get rid of the wasted things and get new ones. He didn’t account for the fact that Martin was a very deeply feeling man—not a plus, in Jon’s opinion—and would have taken it to heart even without the added dimension of being a Green Man. “I see. Noted. Still don’t understand how the cactus features.”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Because you’re giving it to him, Jon. Tim’s got a succulent and I’ve got some ivy. We’re giving them to him together. We picked you up a cactus.”

“Because you’re a prick.” Tim beamed.

Jon scowled in response, then scowled down at the offending plant. It was a fine-looking thing, as far as Jon cared about the aesthetics of cacti, which was practically nonexistent. It had a single, deep-pink blossom on top. “Very well. Let’s get this over with. I’m sure I’m the only one who remembers, but this is a place of work and we are expected to work in it.”

“Lovely.” Sasha smiled, ignoring Jon’s grousing. 

Jon accepted the ceramic pot that was the cactus’s little home and they altogether walked over to Martin’s desk. He looked up at their approach, eyes widening. “Uh. Hey guys. What’s going on?”

Tim placed his succulent on the edge of Martin’s desk. “We’re sorry we didn’t think of it earlier, but we wanted to get you some plants to replace the ones that died in the worm attack. I know they can’t—they can’t really be replaced, individually they meant a lot to you. But we wanted to ah, honor them, I suppose.”

“Oh. Oh.” There was a shimmer in Martin’s eyes that Jon willed to not dissolve into tears. He was clearly deeply touched. “You guys already did so much. I mean, you set me up here. Jon’s letting me use his cot. The Institute could have set me up in a hotel. But you guys made it so I could stay somewhere I felt safe.” 

A little jolt went through him. _He_ knew he had a claim on the thing, but he didn’t realize _Martin_ recognized it as a personal sacrifice. And to know that being here in the cramped storage room felt more secure than anywhere else to him…

“Just let us love on you.” Sasha said, affectionately exasperated. She placed her offering next to Tim’s.

“I’ll, um. Try.” Martin said softly.

Feeling ridiculous and like the Third Wise Man, Jon added his to the line efficiently and stepped back.

“Oh, they’re lovely.” Martin breathed, reaching out and stroking each plant as if shaking their hands and getting acquainted. “I know it doesn’t mean much to you, but they’re very happy. It’s like—hmm, how would you understand? It’s like you adopted them.” He said slowly. “And they’re grateful to have a home. Especially with someone like me, who understands them.”

Sasha beamed and it was entirely without mischief, just a wide, open, loving thing. “Oh that’s so good to hear. I was hoping. Oh! I also forgot, reception passed these on to me as I was heading into the office.” She dug into her pocket and retrieved a delicate satin drawstring bag. She handed it over. “They’re from Lydia—you know, the statement giver with the experience with the Stranger?” Now her smile was ripe with chaos as she slid a sly glance over to Jon. He glared in return. “She said she was grateful for you making her day a bit easier.”

Martin poured out the contents on his hand. There was an assortment of crystals, in all shades and cuts and varieties. He smiled. “She did say she ran a combination crystal and antique shop. Isn’t that an interesting pair? I’m so glad she remembered her name.” He glanced up at Jon. “That was kind of you, Knowing it and reminding her.”

Jon flushed. How had Martin figured that out? He felt seen in a way that was uncomfortably warm.

“Feel like it’s my birthday.” He laughed, though there was a minor strain to it—like his birthdays typically weren’t like this at all. He popped one of the crystals in his mouth and began to chew like it was rock candy instead of a literal rock.

“I don’t think that was her intended use.” Tim chuckled.

Martin looked down at the crystals in his palm, up at Tim, and popped another one in his mouth. “I like them better this way.”

Jon simply did not understand other avatars. His patron was straightforward—you saw the thing, you pursued the thing, you hunted ate maimed the thing. Occasionally you got a sense of pack, like his friendship with Daisy. None of the frills other patrons had. He just rooted out weakness, executed the deserving, reveled in blood. Which, fine, sounded worse than eating rocks. But he knew of the darker side of the Buried, the true Fear side—where avatars of It Is Too Close I Cannot Breathe fed people to caves and tight spaces and the earth itself. Where they choked on dirt and panic and—

Anyways, eating rocks was weird.

“Right then.” Jon said. “I’ll be getting back to work. Would be remarkable if you all would consider it as well.”

“Thank you, Jon.” Martin said with a disarming smile.

“Yes—you’re quite welcome.” Jon responded on instinct. He had no idea whatsoever what he was being thanked for. The cactus that he had not selected and Martin no doubt knew that? Jon shook his head on the way back to his office. 

Jon sorted through the pile of statements on his desk. He settled on one that was almost certainly from the Desolation.

He put all the ones from the Stranger on the bottom.


	9. a study in teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Poe is in high demand, a ritual is brewing, and Jon gets sloppy.
> 
> CWs: minor gore, blood, body horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello fam! This chapter was an Adventure to write. It is setting up a l o t of chaos. 
> 
> Ft. Poe and Georgie, the unsung heroes of the Archives.

Sasha leaned on Martin’s desk. “Please go help Jon. I’m begging you.”

Martin looked up, reading glasses sliding slightly down his nose. “What? When has Jon ever needed my help for anything? I usually make things worse.”

“He’s trying to get a picture of Poe.” Sasha sighed. “That cat hates that man. You’re his only hope.”

Now Martin was doubly confused. “A picture of Poe? Jon loathes Poe.”

“Yes, well. It is certainly mutual. Apparently it’s for his friend.”

“Why isn’t Jon asking me?”

“Ask you for a favour? With his sense of pride? He’d spontaneously combust and you know how hard it is to get ashes out of this carpet.” Sasha exhaled through her nose. “Look. He has been chasing Poe around the Institute all day. He tried using his spooky vampire hypnosis on him. Poe sliced through that sweater vest like pie on a hot summer’s day. Have mercy on him.”

That certainly sounded like Poe. Poe was rather…selective in his affections, and generous with his ire. “I mean—I guess I could go looking for Poe and if Jon just so happens to snap a picture..”

“Oh, you beautiful, beautiful man. Last I heard angry yowling was near the Library.” Sasha leaned over and kissed Martin on the cheek. He blushed to high heaven as she went back to her research.

Martin made for the Library, conjuring an excuse for him to be there. He knew he was on the right track when there was a sound like rusty gates opening emanating from behind the ornate double doors. Martin steeled himself, then pushed through. 

“Martin!” Rosie called, relieved. “Please tell me you’re here to collect that aberration of a cat. He’s usually quite pleasant company, but that Archivist of yours has him all riled up.”

“Not to worry Rosie. I’ll get it situated.”

Leitner poked his head out of his office. “Martin! Just the lad we’ve been hoping to see. You’re here to rescue us from that Archivist, I hope.”

Martin couldn’t help but laugh that they had determined Jon was the loose cannon that needed to be wrangled. “On it.”

Leitner gave a sharp nod and retreated back into the Special Collections room. Now that he thought of it, Martin hadn’t ever actually seen him outside of that room. He had to eat sometime, right? Or change clothes, at least. Maybe he was like Jon used to be before Martin moved into the Archives—he’d had several changes of clothes in the storage room. He shook his head, gave a parting, reassuring smile to Rosie, and delved deeper into the shelves that spiraled up to the ceiling. The topmost books and records required a towering ladder that moved on wheels and could quite possibly be a one-way ticket to death if you weren’t as sturdy as an avatar.

“Poe.” Martin called softly. He knew better than to try to summon Jon. “Where are you, naughty creature? I’ve heard you’ve been wreaking havoc, been absolute murder for Rosie’s heartrate and Leitner’s concentration.” Poe, of course, was a sweet and good boy, but he didn’t understand English—well, Martin was reasonably sure of it—while Jon, however, did thoroughly and would take it poorly if Martin correctly insinuated that he was the cause of all the unrest.

He heard a distant cursing and seconds later Poe appeared, twisting around Martin’s legs, smoke warm to the touch. He grabbed at Martin’s shins with several of his shadowy hands (which were unsettlingly people-shaped and not paw-shaped), demanding to be held. Martin obliged, scooping the eldritch cat up, who immediately started up with his god-awful purr, wrapping what served for his tail around his neck.

Jon emerged from the shelves, panting, cell in hand. There were deep lavender circles under his eyes and his face was drawn. “There you are, you bloody little wan—Oh, Martin.” He drew himself up to his full height, which was not as impressive as Martin suspected he’d like, as far as looking imposing went. “What brings you here? I thought you were out in the field verifying that statement of the Dark consuming Mx. Fletcher where by all means there should have been daylight.”

“Yes, I already visited the fairground. I’m inclined to believe them seeing as it was pitch-black on top of the ferris wheel. At one passed noon.” Martin typically enjoyed the slow coast upward, the view at the top. But it was quite a different story when you reached the epitome of night on top and were suddenly thrust back into strong daylight. “But, Christ, Jon, are you okay? You look wretched.”

“What are you talking about? I’m in perfect health.” Jon sniffed with finality. Martin didn’t dare pry again, but worry steeped in his chest. “Anyways, since you’re here and have the abominable creature subdued, would you—might I take a photo of you? I’ve told Georgie—my friend—about him and she’s requested pictures. She is withholding valuable information from me until this ridiculous mission is fulfilled.”

“Oh. Uh, sure. Anything to help you get whatever is being, ah, held hostage.” He tried for a smile, but it was more a twinge of his lips as Jon looked utterly unamused. He wondered what was so vital that Jon would—in his own mind—reduce himself to chasing a phantom cat, and what was something that would be withheld for so minor a task. He’d say it couldn’t possibly be a matter of life and death, but with avatars of the End as Georgie was (he was aware she was a consultant for the Archives, though not a friend of Jon’s—Jon had friends?) you could never be sure. 

“Well. Hold still.” Jon snapped several pictures in quick succession. “That should suffice.” 

“Will you—will you send them to me?” Martin asked. “I should like to get one framed if they turned out well.”

“Get one—? I don’t understand everyone’s infatuation with this cat at all.” 

“I think you just need to spend more time together.”

“I don’t see the benefit in that.”

“Well he can tell you have a bad energy—” At Jon’s look, Martin backtracked hastily. “I mean, he senses your distaste and it really doesn’t help matters. Cats are quite proud creatures, you know.” Martin bit his tongue before he could say anything, but he definitely thought ‘ _which should mean you two get along swimmingly_.’

“Well, then. Let’s see how they turned out.” Jon scrolled through his phone, lips turning down further and further. “Well these are of no use. What a waste of time.”

“What’s wrong with them? Can I see?” When Jon wordlessly handed his phone over, Martin scrolled through the pictures with one hand while leaving a bracing hand on Poe. “Oh. Huh.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m sorry Poe but I must agree, you’re rather unphotogenic.” 

The only thing that showed up on film were several bright orbs—presumably the manifestation of Poe’s many eyes—a static-like glitch extending from the left side of the photo, and simply too many teeth. They wrapped around his body like a ribbon of canines, forming a feral maw.

“Poe. Where have you been hiding all those? I can’t feel them through your fur.” Martin asked conversationally, passing the phone back to Jon. Poe mewed like a chainsaw in response. “Well. You’re right. Those are useless. Looks like Georgie’s going to take whatever that information is to the grave. Sorry.”

Jon scowled, hammering out a text on his phone. 

“Would you still send them to me?” Martin asked.

“What? Why?” 

“They’re not—they’re not what I was hoping for, but I’ll take whatever I can get. I don’t mind having a photo of too many teeth hovering over my shoulder. Better than nothing.”

Reluctantly, Jon tapped away at his phone again and Martin felt a buzz in his pocket. 

“Don’t accidentally delete them.” Jon warned. “I’m scouring that wretched feline from my phone immediately.” That apparently served as his goodbye as he turned on his heel and practically marched out of the Library. 

After a moment’s pause, Martin retrieved his cell from his pocket out of curiosity. He snapped a quick selfie, beaming into the camera. He accessed the camera roll.

In the photo, Poe stared amiably into the camera with all of his front-facing eyes. His full form was apparent, his shadowy hands-tail?—tail of hands?—touched Martin in several places, holding him loosely as if in a hug. 

Martin immediately set it as his wallpaper.

xxx

An hour or so later, Georgie strode into the Archival Offices. Martin recognized her from having seen her in passing, both as a consultant on End-related statements and as—as far as Martin knew—the only person who could collect Jon from the Archives and force him out into the real world for presumably activities that were nonwork-related.

“Hey, Georgie.” 

“Martin! Good to see you. Love the flowers. Daisies really suit you.”

“Thanks.” Martin smiled warmly. That was something he envied and admired about Georgie in equal turns—she had a way of inserting herself into any space comfortably, naturally, as if she’d known everyone for their entire lives. 

“Is that lump you call a boss in?”

“Ah, yes. Lump, um, present.” 

Georgie stepped up to the office door, winked conspirationally at Martin, and began knocking loudly. “Oi. Can Jonathan Sims come out to play?” She called obnoxiously. Martin could never imagine addressing Jon like that, stern bordering on stoic vampire that he was.

The door opened almost immediately. Jon appeared, flask in trembling hand. “Georgina.” He hissed. “This is my place of work. At least _pretend_ that you take me seriously as a professional.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Head Archivist Jonathan Sims. Might you be available for a romp—oh, how silly of me I apologize—you would never stoop so. Your delicacy, might I borrow your valuable time for a side quest quite beneath you but would leave your humble petitioner eternally grateful?” 

Martin tried and failed to stifle a laugh. Jon glared at him and that sobered him right up.

“What do you want, Georgie? I thought we established I was coming over later.”

“Show me the cat.” She said simply. “Or I will not only cease bequeathing you gold standard photos of the Admiral, but I will block you from his Instagram and bar you from accessing him in person.”

Jon’s eyes went comically wide. “Georgie. The Admiral is one of the last pure good things on Earth. That’s inhumane.”

“Desperate times. Desperate measures. Now show me the ghost cat.” 

“He won’t—I can’t—”

“Yes, yes, I know he hates _you_.” She turned. “I want Martin. The monster feline whisperer.”

Martin blinked in shock. He was well aware this was dreadfully tender territory. It was already a sore point that Jonathan Sims had failed at something, and in front of Martin to boot. Now his best friend—his only friend?—was demanding Martin provide something for her that Jon couldn’t. 

“…Do it.” Jon sighed, looking away, jaw clenched. 

“Jonathan Sims!” Georgie exclaimed. “How rude. Ask nicely.”

“ _Georgie_.”

Georgie just stared him down. Given his slowly growing knowledge of avatars of the Hunt in general and vampires in particular, Martin was certain anyone else would be bleeding by now. His awe of Georgie grew exponentially.

Jon sighed even harder, like a petulant tot. “Fine.” He turned to Martin, looking at the bit of wall to the right of him, and asked in a pained voice through gritted teeth, “Martin. Would you—” Georgie arched a powerful brow. “Would you _please_ escort Georgie to meet that nefarious cat of yours.”

“Actually, he’s kind of the Institute’s mascot.” Tim piped up, removing his headphones and clicking out of a document. “He’s listed as an official employee. Martin’s his favorite but he’s friendly enough with everyone else. You’re the odd one out. He even likes Daisy, and she’s a werewolf. Also why are you still here, Jon? I thought you left an hour ago. You look like hell.”

“Last I saw him he was lurking in the hallway near Elias’s office.” Martin said quickly, nearly knocking over his chair in his rush. “Let’s go see if he’s still there.”

“Peachy.” Georgie beamed. “And Tim’s absolutely right. You look wretched. But you’re dumb and won’t go home, so come to my place tonight after work so at least _one_ person is taking care of you.”

She followed Martin into the halls before Jon could respond. When they were on the breezeway, she bumped Martin with her shoulder. “Thanks for sending me those photos. It was sweet of you to take the time to look through the directory.”

Martin ducked his head, smiling. “No problem. I figured it would be best to work around Jon on this one. He’s rather…sensitive on the matter.”

Georgie laughed and it filled the breezeway. Martin could hardly believe she was an avatar of the End, with how vibrant she was. “You mean he’s a prick. Jonathan doesn’t handle rejection well.” She dabbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie. It had a What the Ghost? logo on it. “I really shouldn’t make fun of him, but he makes himself such an easy target.”

Martin’s lips twisted in what could have been a smile if it wasn’t too wistful. He didn’t like dwelling, but he couldn’t help the craving that settled in his chest. He couldn’t even imagine a world where he could have the kind of easy comradery with Jon as Georgie did. He was pulled away from his barbed thoughts as he saw the wisp of Poe’s tail disappear as he walked through the door to Containment. 

“There!” He cried in his excitement. “Did you see him?”

“No must’ve missed him. Darn.”

“He’s in Containment—you’ve been in there before, right? With all your consultant work?”

“No, actually, I’ve been a phone-in. I have occasionally been on the scene so I’ve met Basira and Mike but that’s it.”

Martin barely had the presence of mind to knock before they went in.

Agnes and Melanie looked up from their desks. 

“Oh, hello, Martin.” Agnes said in that voice of hers that managed to be strong and demure at the same time. Her grey wings flexed. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hey, Agnes.” Maybe they weren’t a match made in hell on earth, but he couldn’t help but be fond of the phoenix. “Where are Basira and the others?”

“In the field.” Agnes sighed. “Raiding an attempt at the Unknowing. Got a tip.”

“By tip she means information gained on pain of death from the Anglerfish.”

“I was trying to be delicate.” It was actually impossible for Agnes to be anything but. Even in the height of her fury—a cold burning thing—her face was gentle as she cremated you. “Even the Anglerfish isn’t willing to break the treaty with Beholding. Nikola Orsinov, however, has become a loose cannon. They went to contain the situation before true diplomatic harm is done.”

“What are you doing here?” Melanie asked bluntly. Martin knew her enough by now to know that she did not, in fact, hate him. She was just rough around the edges. About as cuddly as a blowfish, really. “Who’s that?”

“Georgina Barker. But you can call me Georgie. I’m here on serious business.” Georgie beamed, and even Melanie was not immune to Georgie’s charm, expression thawing. “There is a cat with numberless eyes who I must see with my own two.”

An hour later, Georgie left with a guest photoshoot for the Admiral’s social media, and Melanie’s number. 

“I love a woman who looks like she could kick my ass.” Georgie said.

xxx

Martin walked through the night chill in a meandering path, groceries in hand, asking the hedges and herbs and flowers growing through the sidewalk about their days, as was his habit. When his winding path took him back to the steps of the Institute, he froze. He dropped the bags, groceries spilling out and onto the ground. 

There were two shadowy figures pressed against one of the columns by the doors. One was whimpering softly. 

Martin was more a defense than offense kind of guy, but that wasn’t to say he couldn’t hold his own. Long, wicked thorns grew from his nailbeds and a chainmail of barbs and stinging nettle formed around his body. The figures still hadn’t moved by the time he made it up the steps.

“What are you doing?” The Buried added a low rumble to his voice, the promise of shifting, choking, smothering earth.

“Please.” The single word came out garbled, a breathless plea.

“Whatever you’re doing you need to stop. This is common grounds and no Entity can hunt here.” 

Static charged the air, reverberated in his bones as he reached out and pulled at the shoulder of the trespassing avatar.

They whirled around with a snarl, sharp teeth flashing in the low light, blood dripping, dripping, dripping over their chin and down their front.

“Jon?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were having much too nice a time, weren't we?


	10. an unbecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin and Jon get into some fisticuffs and we make a pit stop to say hi to Gerry.
> 
> CWs this chapter: blood, gore, body horror, loss of control, corpses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello fam! As always, thank you for reading! Your feedback helps me chug along when my energy is low. 
> 
> We were having too pleasant a go of it so I'm here to grime things up once again.

Either Jon did not recognize Martin, or he was feeling a significant amount more animosity than his usual for him. 

“Woah, woah. Jon. It’s me. It’s Martin.”

Jon lashed out, his sharp nails catching on the barbs protecting Martin as his victim dropped to the ground with a concerning thump and gurgling.

“Alright, cool, Jon’s not home, I can handle this, I’m fine it’s fine—” Martin staggered back a step and then another, trying to gain a quick distance from Jon without tumbling down the marble steps. He did not actually know the procedure for his boss going on a homicidal vampiric bender. Surely there was protocol—Ingrid loved protocol. He was sure there was a binder full of paperwork and release forms and, on the bright side, at least he wouldn’t have to deal with that if he was dead. “Um. Alright. Don’t panic.” 

As an avatar of the Buried, Martin was more of a distance fighter and at a disadvantage against Jon’s speed and current berserker state. Avatars of the Hunt did not quit until their teeth was down to the marrow in their quarry. If Martin ran to more favourable terrain—which would be almost literally anywhere else but the steps to the Institute—that would only further fuel Jon’s predator instinct to chase. If Martin had faith in his own speed, it might have been worth a shot, but he was built more densely than Jon and only had durability and height to his advantage.

Jon lunged again and Martin conjured a guard of thorns around his throat at the last moment. Jon recoiled abruptly, hissing at the sting of the barbs puncturing his mouth. He had made the mistake of turning his head as he pulled away, and Martin could see several long barbs poking through the flesh of his right cheek. His insides constricted. Even as he was literally fighting for his life against his boss, he felt bad for causing him pain. However, in addition to the fact that he quite enjoyed the notion of staying alive, he knew Jon would be devastated if he killed Martin—only if as someone who felt a responsibility for Martin as his employee. So really, kicking his arse would be a favour.

Martin kept the choker of thorns. At the very least it would prevent having his throat ripped out. The Hunt was not especially discerning in how they killed, they might play with their prey a bit but they weren’t cruel, just as sharks and snakes are not inherently cruel. Jon had several hundred ways at his disposal to tear Martin apart—disembowelment, dismemberment, tearing his heart straight from his chest—oh, that was certainly not helping. But he did know the Hunt had a particular preference for the soft flesh of the throat, and if he was going to die, he was going to go out as pettily as possible.

Martin summoned the grave soil in his lungs, pulling it through his skin, hardening it like a brace around his forearm as he blocked a swipe. He became a bundle of reactions, warding off Jon’s savage advances. If he was merely a human, Martin could bank on his endurance to outlast Jon’s barrages that paid no attention to the concept of energy. But Jon had to go and be a fucking vampire with fucking vampire stamina—

“Is this because I tried to kill you?” Martin breathed, narrowly avoiding taking Jon’s handful of bladelike nails to the side. Jon apparently did not mind spilling his own blood so long as he could spill Martin’s in the process. “I said I was sorry. And I _did_ have supernatural filth piloting my flesh. What’s your excuse?”

Jon was not a chatty killer, which was disappointing in that Martin would have to supply all the dramatic quips, but a relief in that his murder felt marginally less personal.

Finally Martin caught a break when Jon listed to the side and back a step of his own accord, breathing heavily as he braced himself against a column, posture still tensed for another assault. Martin noted the sweat dripping down Jon’s brow, the colour high in his cheeks, the trembling bordering on shaking now that he was still. Even well fed and recently fed at that, it was not natural for a vampire to have that much colour suffusing them.

“Jon—you’re sick.” He said, bewildered. He wasn’t aware vampires could even get sick, what with their supernatural immune systems and recovery speed.   
Jon tensed even further, coiled like a cobra at the mention of his weakness. Martin rolled his eyes. Bloody incredible, that the only semblance of coherence Jonathan Sims had during his breakdown would be his sense of pride. 

Now that he knew what he was dealing with—well, it didn’t change much actually. He felt even worse about kicking Jon when he was down, but seeing as even sick Jon was extremely capable of tearing him limb from limb and then beating him to death with said limbs, he really couldn’t afford pulling punches.   
Vines studded with thorns designed to catch in flesh and immobilize prey unspooled from Martin’s wrists. “Y’know, I actually haven’t had the opportunity to be this creative in a long while, I’m a more subtle hunter myself. A classic live burial here, a growing-saplings-inside-out-through-your-unhinged-jaw there—this is rather dramatic.” As Jon staggered for him—Martin had to admire the determination—he wrapped the vines around his wrists, chest, and throat, effectively lashing him to the nearest pillar. “Why didn’t I lead with that?”

Jon gnashed his teeth, straining against his binds, barbs lacerating his throat and dripping black blood down into a completely unsalvageable shirt. Unfortunate. It was a rather dashing shade of forest green. 

“Now don’t do that.” Martin implored. “You’re only hurting yourself.” Now that he was up close, he could see the glazed shine of a fever in Jon’s catlike pupils, which were blown wide. 

Martin looked around, relieved to find the street abandoned despite the horrible ruckus that had just ensued. Finally capable of checking on the fallen man now that Jon was subdued, Martin knelt on the cold marble. The man’s throat was, well, not much of a throat anymore. This wasn’t the careful feeding of a composed vampire. It was a brutal demand for flesh and blood. The man’s eyes, much like Jon’s, were glazed over. Except they would only cloud over time. He sighed.

Martin Blackwood had a conundrum on his hands. Both Jon and the nameless corpse needed to be moved into the Institute. He could only take one at a time. And neither a motionless body nor a rabid man secured to a pillar would slip notice. “At least one of you is silent.” Martin cast a bland look at Jon.

“You’ve left me in a rather sticky situation, Jon.” Martin closed the dead man’s eyes. “I’ve got a body on my hands, and you’re being rather uncooperative at the moment.” He sighed, deeper this time. “So you’ll have to excuse the liberty.” 

He walked over to Jon, and with a familiarity and tenderness he would never have used were Jon in his right mind, cusped his face in his palms, holding his head steady to avoid his sharp teeth. “Truly sorry for this.”

He drew his fist back and knocked Jonathan Sims out cold. He shook his fist out. “Bloody hell, Jon. Do you have a plate of steel under your face? Is that why you have such good cheekbones?”

He turned to the corpse. “Now for you.” He dragged him into the corner of the plateau leading to the Institute’s grand double doors, stowing him in a corner where the hedges were just tall enough to obscure him if no one made any effort to look for him. He trudged back to Jon’s unconscious form and cautiously unwound the vines keeping him in place, not flinching as they merged back with his own flesh one barb at a time. He kept Jon’s wrists bound, it would give him at least a flimsy fighting chance if Jon awoke before Martin could get him from point A to point B, which was the storage room he was currently using as a bed and breakfast. One of the main features that made him feel safe there was the reinforced door, which would take even Jon some focused effort to break through. 

Blessedly, Jon did not awake, which was one nice thing. Didn’t quite make up for the raw flesh torn asunder on various parts of his arms and legs, but well, silver linings or something like that. 

Poe coalesced from the shadows as Martin made his way through the Archival offices. His eyes glowed pupil-less and incandescent. A sound reverberated through his chest, pricking at the back of Martin’s mind like the sense of a storm barreling closer. The keening that wasn’t quite real sounded awfully close to the one time he’d heard a banshee of the Slaughter. No doubt Poe could smell the copper reek of violence on them. 

“Now no need to be like that. I’m fine. Jon’s fine.” Poe hissed at the vampire’s name. Maybe it was word association but Martin was beginning to think Poe had a far greater intellect than an average housecat. “Okay, you don’t care for Jon but I do. So please be nice. Or at least not murderous.” He understood that the banshee mimicry was Poe’s equivalent of a death threat. 

Martin moved efficiently, depositing Jon on the cot—on top of the covers, he was sure preventing bloodstains was a lost cause, but, hell, he would do his damnedest—and closed the door securely behind him. 

Once he’d retrieved the body, he power walked to Artefact Storage. 

Gerard Keay was still there.

“Oh, hello, Gerry.” Martin said, pausing to be polite.

“Hullo Martin.” Gerry looked up from a particularly nasty specimen—some kind of doll with the limbs all wrong. Martin’s gaze slid over it like it couldn’t quite catch. Gerry’s Doc Martens were propped on top of his desk, rows of silver buttons and buckles catching in the cold light of the bulbs above. “What’ve you got there?”

“Body.”

“Neat.” He turned back to his work. Martin noticed he was looking at the doll through side glances exclusively.

Martin dropped the body into the entrance of the tunnels with an ugly thump. He was typically respectful of the dead—he coveted their living fear, after all, and felt their bodies should be treated with the same reverence. But he needed to get back to tend Jon as quickly as possible. 

He gathered the body in a much gentler hold as he delved deeper and deeper in the tunnels, hard-packed earth underfoot. He did not need to consciously know where he was going. He asked for guidance and the earth provided. He would likely never find the alcove he ended up in again, but that was just fine, ideal, really. 

He lay the body down, moving the hair out of the man’s face. Body still warm, he looked asleep, like a faerie tale prince, if a faerie tale prince had a septum piercing and no throat. Martin dug his fingers knuckle-deep into the dirt.

“Please accept my offering.” He murmured to his patron.

And though the Buried would have preferred to sate itself on the fear of the man, it still found pleasure in the adornment of his body. It took him under with hands of grave soil, parting the tunnels until the body was swallowed hole.

“Right. Thank you.” 

When Martin emerged from the tunnels, Gerry was just getting up from his desk, doll secured to it with a blade through its heart. He continued twisting his long hair up into a bun. “Do anything interesting down there?”

“Sorry, no. Just had the ground gobble him up.” 

Gerry hummed. “Can I have the bones?” 

“The Buried isn’t much for sharing.” Martin shrugged in a wordless apology.

Gerry hummed again. “Well. Good night, Martin.”

“’Night.”

Black liquid seeped from Gerry’s milky white eyes, running obsidian rivulets down his cheeks. His skeletal hands—dark skin pulled taut to the bone—began to dissipate, and the dissolution traveled upward until Martin was alone.

When he arrived back to his room, he hovered by the door. The plant on his bedside table told him Jon was awake, but seemingly placid. Martin wasn’t dumb enough to let his guard down. He opened the door slowly, making exaggerated movements so he did not startle Jon. 

“Jon?” He asked softly. 

The other man rolled to face him. “Martin?”

He sighed, laxing just a bit. It was a good sign if Jon knew who he was. “Do you remember what happened tonight?”

“I don’t—I was at Georgie’s—why am I bound?” Martin’s heart leapt at the soft confusion on his face.

Martin sat at the foot of the bed, not daring to move any closer. Even from this distance, he could tell Jon’s eyes were still bright with fever, but at least he was coherent enough to speak in English and not wordless snarls of fury, though Martin did appreciate a man who was bilingual. 

“Jon, you killed a guy.” Martin said bluntly. It was too dangerous to dance around something like that. That could not only get him fired, but executed, likely at the hands of Basira herself. 

“I—what, no—I wouldn’t—not here—” Panic sparked in Jon’s eyes as he struggled to sit.

“You’re sick Jon. Did you not notice?”

“Nonsense. I don’t get sick.” He said as blood trickled out of his nose. 

“Look, Jon. I don’t have the energy for denial, it’s been a very long night. Can I trust you to stay here while I go fetch some things?”

“I—yes, of course.” Martin wouldn’t have taken Jon at his word, not really, but given the adrenaline was drained from him, he looked like he couldn’t win a fight against a ladybug. It was quite sad, really. When he was collected, Jon was going to loathe Martin seeing him like this, and likely loathe Martin himself for it.

“I’ll be back.” He promised.

“Martin, wait—” Jon called as he was halfway out the door.

Martin paused. “Yes, Jon?”

“I’m sorry for—for everything—for whatever—for it all.” Jonathan was really in a bad way if he was willingly and sincerely going out of his way to apologise. “And will you—if you will, I’m parched.”

Martin had to bite back an incredulous _‘Still?’_

“In the uh—blood kind of way.” He looked away, ashamed, no doubt painfully aware of the irony as he was covered in the stuff.

“I gathered.” Martin replied gently. 

When he returned, he came bearing a wet cloth, a mug of chamomile tea with honey, and a thermos of blood chill from the fridge. 

Jon was sitting upright, wrists freed, head in his hands.


	11. midnight snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we deal with the aftermath of Jon's slip up, Poe is slightly less hateful, and a familiar face comes to visit.
> 
> CWs this chapter: secondhand embarrassment, blood, minor gore, body horror, emotional manipulation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello sweet ones! I hope your week is treating you kindly. As always, thank you for reading and for your feedback. Every comment I get gives me +1 serotonin and +1 dopamine haha. I'll respond to them when I can but just know y'all grow my heart three sizes on the daily.

“Tea first. Then blood.” Martin said firmly as he put both the mug and thermos on his makeshift bedside table (read: several boxes stacked on top of each other with some books on top for a flat surface). 

“Martin.”

“Jon.”

“Tea will not help me heal.”

“Humour me.”

Jon sighed heavily, exasperated, as he accepted the mug. He drained it in three huge gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing. Martin knew for a fact it was still far too hot for that, which meant Jon really just burnt his throat to make a point. “There. Blood.”

“You do realize scorching your throat is the opposite of the intent with tea, right?”

“Blood, Martin.” Jon’s voice was bordering on a croak so Martin complied.

Jon hadn’t even taken a full sip before he spat the substance out, blood dribbling crimson down his chin, a glob balanced on his lips. _And this is the object of my affections_ , Martin thought, grimacing.

“What’s the problem? Did it, uh, expire or something? Can blood expire?”

“Too cold. I want warm.”

“That’s not the sort of thing you can pop in the microwave, Jon. And I thought you said it didn’t matter. ‘ _Coffee is coffee_.’” 

“I lied.” He pouted, pushing the thermos back on the nightstand. He curled in on himself on the bed, arms crossed over his knees, looking for all the world like a toddler. “I want fresh.”

“Are you—are you fucking _kidding_ me, Jonathan?” It was rare that Martin ever used Jon’s full name, but if he knew his middle one, he’d use that too. He’d three-name the prick. “Are you throwing a tantrum? Over the temperature of blood? Was it not enough to rip open a guy’s throat?”

The colour of sickness was still high in Jon’s cheeks as he tilted his face away from Martin. “Still hungry. Want it fresh. We can call Tim. Tim’s fresh.”

“It’s the middle of the night, I’m not calling Tim.” Martin paused, glaring. “And why Tim?”

“Tim lets me have blood occasionally. In exchange for him using me as a first aid kit.” Jon tacked on dryly. 

“Well I’m not calling Tim and I’m not getting you bloody _take-out_ from whoever’s out in the streets right now, which is probably not a good sort, anyways.” 

Jon looked up at Martin balefully through his lashes, beseeching as much as annoyed. His pale irises and slit pupils still had a glassy light to them. 

“Why are you looking at me like that.” 

“How much would it cost? Your blood?” Jon asked, clearly resenting the need to ask, likely the need to ask Martin in particular. He began digging in his pockets, presumably for notes.

“I’m not—you’re not going to _pay_ to—to take my blood.” Martin stammered. “Like some back alley deal.” 

Jon paused. “I can pay you in other ways. Anyone you need to kill who you can’t be implicated in their murder?”

“Jon!”

“Please?” Jon landed on finally, looking like the word was being pulled from his lungs with herculean effort.

“ _That_ was the last-ditch effort?” Martin shook his head. “Yes. Fine. Whatever. If it will get you to shut up and rest. Can you even take blood from me, being of the Buried?” Martin sat on the edge of the cot. Jon scooted over to allow him more room.

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried.” Jon’s brows furrowed. “I’ve had the Corruption before, though, so I imagine it’s possible.”

“You ate—you ate something of the _Corruption_? _Voluntarily_?” 

“Don’t be so judgmental. It was for science.” Jon made a face. “A cursed study, as it were. Couldn’t get rid of the aftertaste for weeks. Almost cut my tongue off to grow a whole new one.”

“What…? How long does it even take you to do that?”

Jon sniffed. “Asking one how long it takes them to grow a tongue is rather personal, Martin.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” Martin scrubbed his face with his hands as if he could scrub himself out of the situation. “Just get on with it.”

“Have you ever had your blood taken before?” Jon asked, taking Martin’s hand, flipping it palm-up. 

Martin’s heart was suddenly beating quite fast, and he could feel his face warm from his ears down to his neck—Jon was guaranteed to hear it, and that of course made his heart even quicker, like an ouroboros of embarrassment. 

“No need to be anxious.” Jon patted his hand twice, awkwardly. His voice took on a soothing cadence. “I’ll just bite into your wrist here. It’s like a shot—stings and it’s done. Can even be pleasant, depending on how you react to it as an avatar. Tim says he just gets kind of numb. Not really sure how it affected Sasha. Only tried the once. Barely even counts, I recoiled before I got more than a few drops of her blood.” He grimaced. “The Spiral tastes like white noise—or, if you’ve ever licked a battery. You can imagine the kick Sasha got out of it.”

Martin felt like there was a jolt in his heart right then. Was he…jealous? It was hard to pin the feeling down, something big and loud and scrambled. If it was….jealousy…was he jealous that Jon had never asked him to, ah, donate before? Or was it because he was jealous of Tim and Sasha, for having that intimacy with him, as odd as it may be? Martin shook himself into a semblance of composition. “Don’t use that on me. Please.”

Jon cut-off midsentence, he’d been saying something or other about another Entity he’d sampled. “Use what?”

“That…thing. The y’know. Mind thing. I don’t like how my feelings feel like they’re coming through miles of gauze.” 

“Oh.” Abruptly, the false peace inside of Martin extinguished. “Sorry, habit.”

“No mind.”

“Well, then. Are you—are you prepared?” Jon glanced up at Martin, lips just centimetres from pressing against his wrist. 

Martin gave a brusque nod and Jon bit without further ado, fangs slipping in with fine precision. Martin hissed and jerked slightly, a soft thing. Jon had been on target—it felt like getting a flu shot. And then the sting mellowed out, becoming not quite pleasurable, but blissfully numb, like the emotional equivalent of floating downstream carelessly. It felt like his flowers blooming as they came to life in his hair, his palms. Martin closed his eyes, aware of the softness of Jon’s lips, of his hand holding his own steady. Jon, to his credit, made quick work of it, pulling back after only a minute or so, licking Martin’s wound clean. When he leaned back, he licked his lips, gaze sharper than before, and his pupils were starting to readjust to normal.

“Thank you.” Jon said cordially. 

“Anytime.” Martin said, unthinking.

Jon merely arched a brow.

“Well—what I mean is—” Martin stumbled over his words. He didn’t think he could blush any deeper, but apparently there was a whole Mariana’s Trench at the end of the spectrum he’d never visited before.

“What you mean is ‘no problem.’” Jon supplied.

“Yes. That one.” Martin already missed the gentle weight of Jon’s fingers, the feeling that, for once, Martin was exactly what Jon needed. Given, he would have rather that need not include hiding a body for him, but. He would take what he could get. 

Jon swore and Martin flinched back against the pillows. “Georgie!” He scrambled for his phone, tapping away erratically. “Oh no. I missed several calls and almost twenty texts. She’s going to kill me. What if—” Jon suddenly blanched.

“Jon? Jon, what’s wrong?”

“ _What if I ate the Admiral_.” Martin had never seen Jon look so afraid. Martin wasn’t even sure if he’d seen Jon afraid point blank. He immediately hit a button and pressed the phone to his ear. A few seconds passed. “Georgie! Georgie thank god. Is the Admiral alright? What? Yes I know, I’m sorry to worry you. I uh, I um, went for a midnight snack and last track of time.”

“ _Liar_.” Martin mouthed, incredulous. Understatement to end all understatements. A distinguished understatement, with a crown and an award in a trophy case.

“I’ve ended up at the Institute and I think I’ll spend the night, too late to catch a train back to you anyhow.” A pause. “Martin? Yes, well. There are—there are other accommodations available to me.” A pause. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll check in with you first thing, promise. Love you, too. Sorry. Bye.”

When Jon ended the call, he met Martin’s gaze briefly, then turned away. “The Admiral is fine. Georgie is fine. That’s all that matters. Don’t sit there judging me.”

Martin sputtered. “I’m not judging you.”

“Of course you are. You think I’m a failure of a vampire and a man at that, and that I’m irresponsible, and I’m a shite friend for lying to Georgie, and—”

“Jon.” Martin stood, beginning to pace.

Jon paused in berating himself, lips tight.

“You made a couple of dumb decisions while you were ill. I’m not judging you. Sounds like you’re the one judging you.”

“Oh. Well. Hmph.” Jon looked down. “I don’t need your pity, Martin.”

“You’re impossible. Absolutely impossible.” Martin’s voice went a bit shrill and he cringed. “Fine. Whatever. Can we both agree nothing about me will satisfy you and move on?” He tossed the damp cloth at him and Jon caught it without looking, which would have been marginally impressive if it didn’t slap him in the face on one end. He glowered.

“While you clean up, I’ll get you a change of clothes. Where do you keep them? You have spares, right? You used to stay overnight.”

“Yes, they’re in—” Jon paused in scrubbing at his face in harsh circles. “They’re in the wash. At my flat.”

“Oh. Well. In that case, you can borrow a jumper of mine.”

“No, no, that’s not necessary.” Jon’s leg began bouncing slightly.

“It really is.”

“I don’t mind—I don’t mind sleeping in this.” Jon pulled at the hem of his shirt, not even convincing himself as he evaluated the blood that had dried dark and stiff in the fabric.

“I don’t care what you mind. You are not sleeping in my bed covered in blood.”

“Sleeping in your—I’m not staying here Martin.”

“Oh yes you are. You’re sick.”

“I’ll sleep in my off—”

“No you won’t.” Martin realized he had never been this domineering and firm with Jon before. Likely with anyone. But he became an absolute bear when it came to protecting those around him. And Jon was clearly incapable of taking care of himself on a good day, let alone running what he was pretty sure was a fever.

“Martin.” Jon’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“I’m sorry, who just hid— _escorted_ that gentleman you were associated with earlier off the premises?” Martin did not feel bad at all for playing that trump card. He would bully Jon into minding his health if he had to.

Immediately, Jon’s expression dimmed. “Yes.” He said lightly. “I suppose you’ve a point. I will stay.” He pointed a finger at Martin. “But only as a sign of gratitude for your…help…this evening.”

“Yeah, sure.” Whatever he needed to tell himself. “I’ll grab you a spare and then give you some privacy.” He rummaged around in the box that served as his dresser, pulling out a sunset-orange number that had little touches of warm yellow woven in throughout. He put it on the cot beside Jon, who eyed it like it was a snake sidling up to him. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Here, hand me the towel.” Jon’s skin was still tinted ruddy in some places, but the majority of the blood was gone. 

Martin grabbed a pair of pyjamas for himself and went to change in the bathroom. When he came back, Poe was in a stare-down with Jon, who was now donning the jumper. It was several sizes too big for him and it was, no way around it, fucking precious. It hit him mid-thigh and the sleeves flopped over his hands, sliding down no matter how hard he tried to bundle them up. 

“Your cat is staring at me. Make it stop.” Jon said, gaze never leaving Poe.

“Poe.” The cat pulled his lips back, showing his many teeth to Jon, before turning to look at Martin. “I know Jon is a mean, mean man, but he is very ill right now, and it is not a fair fight.” 

The cat made what he took to be an imploring mew, if imploring mews sounded like stairs creaking in an abandoned manor. 

“Martin!” Jon said, indignant.

“I promise you can terrorize him to your heart’s—do you have a heart, Poe? Do you have organs?—anyways, he’s all yours once he gets better. But be nice to him for tonight.”

Poe turned in a circle a couple times, becoming a tiny cyclone of eyes and teeth and smoke, before disappearing altogether.

“Christ.” Jon muttered. “What all is that infernal beast capable of?”

Martin tugged one of the blankets from the foot of the bed, splaying it on the floor.

“You must take the bed.” Jon declared when he realized what Martin was doing.

“You’re the one who’s sick.”

“I won’t have you sleeping on the floor again because of me.”

“What’s that? The sound of me removing— _escorting_ that gentleman friend of yours and depositing him safely at public transit?”

“If this is how it’s going to be, I almost wish you let me get caught.” Jon mumbled.

Martin paused in prepping his makeshift bed, shoulders tensed. “They might have killed you, Jon. They might still, if they ever find out. Basira or Melanie or anyone else but Daisy would have to manage it. And it would destroy Daisy. It would destroy the Archives.”

Jon scoffed. “Elias would have a new Archivist by the end of the week. And Daisy would insist on being the one to kill me. Better pack than an outsider.”

Martin’s hands trembled lightly. He still didn’t turn around. “There are countless Archivists. But there’s only one Jonathan Sims.”

It was like the room became the vacuum of space. Breath robbed from lungs. 

“Oh. Well. Um. Best get to bed, then.” Jon finally murmured. “It’s been—it’s been quite a day.”

“It has.” Martin turned the lights out, and nested up.

An hour later, he woke to the sound of Jon’s frantic murmurs. 

“No, Mr. Spider. Please. I did not come to visit. I did not come to visit.” He chanted, curled in one himself in a fetal position. Rubbing his eyes and adjusting to the dark, Martin looked at the sliver of Jon’s face he could see. The shine of sweat ran down his face, which was hot to the touch. He didn’t even stir as Martin peeled the covers back to get him some air. 

He tiptoed down the hall, retrieved a glass of water and another damp cloth, the other one deemed ruined and binned. When he returned, he perched on the top edge of the cot, laid the cloth over Jon’s burning forehead. The other man flinched at the contact but still did not wake. 

“Skin…crawling…they’re—they’re under it they’re under my skin get them out get them out _get them out_.” Jon cried, face contorted. He began clawing at his arms, sharp nails going through the fabric to rake across his skin. Well. At least it wasn’t one of Martin’s favourites.

“Shhh. You’re okay it’s okay. It’s just a dream. You’re safe the spiders can’t touch you.” Martin murmured, with only a bare hope that some part of Jon could hear him. “You have to stop that now, Jon.” Martin gingerly disentangled Jon’s hands, half expecting to get clawed in the process.

Jon’s eyes opened, gaze unfocused. “Grandmother?”

Martin froze. 

“It’s the dream again. The one where the book gobbles me whole and I’m inside it and it’s inside me and—will you stay?” 

Martin had never seen Jon so open, everything vulnerable in the depth of the night. He delicately moved Jon so that he could slide under his torso, head resting in his lap. 

“Thank you.” Jon sighed, his body relaxing as he let sleep consume him once more. 

“Anytime.” Martin murmured, with no one to hear. 

Through the night, Jon sweat through the sheets, jerked violently, and shouted at unseen demons. When his fever finally, finally broke, Martin allowed himself rest.

It wasn’t until the sun rose that he fell asleep. 

He woke up to Tim’s frantic shouting. He had been leaning into the wall, the side of his face pressed uncomfortably against it. He turned slightly to look up at Tim.

“Martin. Martin get up.” When Martin simply turned his face back into the wall, Tim swore. “Martin you have to get up.”

“Five more minutes.” He promised, eyes drifting shut.

“Martin, we don’t _have_ five minutes. Prentiss is in the Archives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chanting: WORMS WORMS WORMS


	12. beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which sacrifices are made as the Archival team faces off against the dread Hive queen.
> 
> Or: "how many ways can I describe the movements of worms & if you took a shot every time I wrote 'worms' you would get a disney fast pass to heaven."
> 
> CWs this chapter: everyone's favorite canon-typical worms, body horror, tight spaces, not being able to see in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello friends & fam!
> 
> Ooooo I had no idea how I was going to crank out this chapter because I didn't want the Archives gang to be over-powered. They are powerful, but they are supernatural nerds with desk jobs as opposed to, say, Melanie, who sometimes sits at a desk but that's mostly just because it's convenient to clean knives and guns on a flat surface.
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Did my best to have a twist on this classic TMA episode!

Martin stumbled out of the room after Tim, joggers on, feet bare. Fire alarms were shrieking overhead, drilling into his brain.

“She’s in the halls, still. Elias evacuated the rest of the Institute.” Tim said in a rush. “The others are in Artefact Storage.” 

Martin paused, head tilted at a wet, squelching sound. Tim glanced back at the door and swore. A legion of pale, sickly worms was writhing through the cracks of the door to the offices. Jane’s voice sang out, garbled and saccharine. Martin wondered if she was speaking through a throat honeycombed by worms. 

“Hello, dear ones.” She crooned. “Is anyone home?”

Martin tensed, fear and fire battling within. He felt the phantom rot of worms in his flesh, his flowers and plants dripping, rancid. He wanted to stay as far away from her as possible. He wanted to make her bleed. 

“Martin, we need to get down to Storage. _Now_.” 

Martin shook himself out of his dire thoughts, making a mad dash for his desk. He drew as many plants as he could into his arms, pots clutched tight to his chest. He cast a beseeching look at Tim.

“Martin we don’t have _time_ for this.” Tim’s voice ticked up with urgency.

“Tim. Please.” Martin begged softly. “I can’t lose them again.”

“ _Fuck_. Alright.” Tim ran, grabbed the remaining pots. “Now come on.”

They had gotten halfway to the staircase that wound down to Artefact Storage when the door burst open, unleashing a writhing mass of worms. Prentiss was in the eye of the storm. She beamed at them.

“Hellooo loves. So glad to see you. We’re famished.” Worms fell down her lips as she spoke, sour jewels falling from her rictus grin. 

“Martin, go on.” The urgency was drained from Tim’s voice—he faced the Hive with a firm resolve.

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“Martin.” There was a plea and a command in his voice. 

The first ranks of the worms were nearly upon them.

“No.” Martin said with steel in his words. “Drop the pots, Tim.”

“What?” Tim asked. “The ones we just risked our lives for?”

“Your life means more to me.” 

“Martin—”

“Drop. Them.” Martin dropped the pots pressed against his heart. His fingers did not want to let go. No part of him wanted to let go.

Tim dropped his own armful.

Martin closed his eyes, drew on his Patron while his heart broke. The pots exploded with ceramic shrapnel, the plants sprouting spider-like legs of roots and soil. They skittered to meet the Hive, impaling them as they clashed. There were far too many worms for them to last.

Martin grabbed Tim’s hand, tugging them into a sprint down the stairs, hand ghosting over the path of the rail. When they reached the bottom, Tim banged on the door. “It’s us! Let us in!”

“You don’t have your badge?” Martin asked, eyes wide as they were affixed to the tide of worms coming down the stairs, bodies falling through the spaces like ghastly rain.

Tim’s knocking increased, knuckles banged so hard against the metal door, Martin cringed at the sound, the promise of deep bruising. 

Martin’s mind was a loop of fear and anger and desperation, everything bleeding into the thought _what can I do what can I do what can I do_. His vines wouldn’t do much against the parasites. He could use the tunnels as a homing beacon for him to phase through the floor, soil calling to soil, but he couldn’t take Tim with him. 

A door that wasn’t appeared as worms writhed over his naked feet, seeking purchase in his flesh. Sasha threw the door open, reaching out. Tim dragged Martin back—fingers digging so hard into his arm he gasped—and pushed him into Sasha’s waiting arms. Tim whirled around, ruining his nice boots as he stomped on the nearest worms. He brought his hands up, palm out, concentrating. The power of the Vast crushed down on the worms in an arc around Tim, bodies popping like tiny firecrackers. 

Jane Prentiss stood at the top of the stairs, a hand pressed against the banister as she looked upon the carnage. She screamed and it was as if a thousand voices were screaming, overlapping. 

Sasha snagged Tim with one of her elongated hands, impossible joints wrapping around his shoulder as she roughly drew him in and closed the door that wasn’t there.

They were only in the labyrinth for a moment, barely that. Sasha had ripped open another door that wasn’t that led directly into the storage room.

“Oh thank god.” Jon said as they approached. He was bundled up in one of the armchairs, a non-cursed one, thankfully. Martin’s jumper swallowed him up, hands obscured as he clutched his knees to his chest. Martin’s heart paused when he noticed his bloody trousers, but all the blood looked to be dried from the night before. He looked horrid—lavender circles deep under his eyes, angry marks dashed across his cheek where he’d impaled himself on Martin’s thorns. 

Tim leaned against Sasha for support, panting. Martin dropped to his knees.

“Martin?” Jon made to rise. 

“I’m fine it’s fine I’m fine.” Martin rambled. It did not take a detective to know he was in fact, thoroughly un-fine, rather not okay. Once again, his plants were dead because of the Corruption, the Filth that was Jane Prentiss. His dull gaze caught on a straggler worm, which had climbed up to the hem of his joggers. His rage eclipsed his disgust as he picked the thing off, threw it to the ground, and smashed it with his palm. He wiped the raw guts off on his trousers, already decided that everything he wore would have to be cleansed with fire if they survived this.

“Oh, I might be ill.” Jon sank back into his stronghold of an armchair.

“That’s right nasty.” Sasha agreed. 

“Get those buggers.” Tim said fiercely. Recovered, he bent down and hauled Martin to his feet. He pulled him into a tight hug, pressing his face into Martin’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry about your plants.”

Martin willed the tears out of his eyes. The only thing spilling today would be blood, and it would not be his. “Thank you.” 

Tim leaned out, cusping the back of Martin’s head with one broad hand and planted a kiss on his forehead. He patted his shoulder roughly, once, then turned back to the others. Jon’s brows were furrowed and Sasha wore an appraising look. Tim moved to perch on the arm of a loveseat—also, thankfully Institute-provided and curse-free…probably—and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Any word from Elias? Were you able to get in contact with Basira?”

Jon sighed. “Cell reception is dodgy in here. Got some weird static when I tried to call Elias. Basira’s not answering. I got ahold of Mike. He said he, Melanie, and Agnes were going to extract Basira and Daisy, whom they haven’t heard from since they went to disrupt that ritual. Said Agnes will see if any of her cult will come help us in their place.”

“So we’re depending on the Cult of the Lightless Flame?” Tim said, dumbfound. “They’ll probably just burn it all down and say ‘problem solved.’”

“Maybe they’ll send Jude.” Sasha said slyly.

“I hope so.” Jon grinned, except it was more a baring of sharp teeth. 

“Okay, so pending rescue and/or evisceration, what’s the plan?” Martin took a seat on the cushion across from Tim. 

“Sasha, can you get us outside the Institute with your doors?” Jon asked.

“Not-doors.” She corrected. “And no. Getting Tim and Martin in here was tricky enough. You have to place them one in front of the other with barely any breathing room. Otherwise, you’ll get pulled into the labyrinth and even I can’t get you out.” She paused. “Michael could. But they probably wouldn’t. You emerging unscathed is far less fun for them than feeding you to the Spiral.”

“Cool. So it’s looking like death by paranormal worms burrowing into us or being consumed by a chaos dimension.” Martin said, leg bouncing.  
“I’d prefer the chaos dimension, if this is a democracy.” Tim offered. 

“I’m afraid it’s first come, first serve, as it were.” Jon said dryly.

“We might be able to take the Hive, all of us together. She’s got numbers, but we’ve got power. She’s a shambling almost-corpse without those buggers. We’ve a collection of abilities at our disposal.” Sasha mused. “Tim can use the Vast to pop them like so many bubbles, Martin can use them as plant fodder, and Jon can—hmm. What use _are_ you in this situation?”

“Can’t enthrall a hivemind.” Jon glowered, fingers peeking from under the hems of his sleeves—his sleeves, Martin thought with a burst of satisfaction—revealing his long, fine claws. Martin shivered at the memory of them rending through his sides, the wounds of which were still packed with mud. A little more animosity on Jon’s part, a little less prowess on Martin’s, and they could easily have found his marrow.

But they were worthless against Prentiss, unless he intended to crouch and skewer them one by one.

“I’m not much help, either, actually.” Martin offered. It earned him a glare from Jon. “There’s too many of them. Can’t divide my attention that much and maintain precision. And if I properly focus on any amount of them, then I’m left vulnerable to the rest of the horde.”

“You can’t like—smother them in soil or something?” Jon asked.

“They’re worms, Jon.” Martin said blandly.

Tim barely stifled his huff of laughter. Sasha cackled openly. 

“Sash—you could distort them right?” Tim asked. 

Sasha shook her head reluctantly. “Same problem as Martin. I could send a—a ripple, maybe, but more will rise in their places. It would be a Sisyphus situation, I’m afraid.”

Tim leaned back against the back of the couch, smug. “Seems like I’m the most valuable player on the team today. Used to it by now, though.”

Jon huffed. “She’s got time on her side, too. Artefact Storage isn’t meant to be a bunker. It’s got that fortified door but that’s mostly for climate control. Eventually she’ll find a way in, worms don’t need much room at all to maneuver through, could come through the venting—”

“Through the plumbing.” Sasha intervened.

“Yes.” Jon nodded.

“Jon.” She pointed, and they all turned to look.

There was a steady stream of worms pouring from the showerhead of the emergency shower used for chemical spills and nasty substances leaking from supernatural objects. There were also worms wriggling out of the sink next to it.

“Bloody hell!” Jon scrambled to his feet. 

Something fell from the ceiling, bouncing off Martin’s shoulder. He looked down. 

A worm was squirming, glinting on the cement floor.

Martin looked up.

“Fuck.” Tim said elegantly as a rain of worms descended upon them. 

“To the tunnels, then.” Martin said as they rushed to avoid the downpour. 

“The what?” Jon asked.

“The tunnels.” 

“We have tunnels?” Tim asked. 

Martin’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Yes, didn’t you know?”

“Clearly not.” Jon snarked.

“Under the Institute? They run for miles.” Martin shook his head. “I can’t believe you didn’t know they were there.” He’d felt them as soon as he’d stepped foot in the building. 

“Where do they lead?” Sasha asked.

Martin shrugged. “Everywhere.”

“Geographical conversations later, surviving now.” Tim said, voice rising an octave as the ‘fortified’ door burst open and Prentiss walked into the room with a fresh tide of writhing silver bodies cresting in a wave around her ankles. 

“If you will not be _loved_ by the Hive, you will _fuel_ it.” She smiled as one of her fingers dropped into the fray at her feet. 

Martin whipped his head around. “Okay I can’t—I can’t take you all with me. We’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way.” He dashed to the far side of the storage room, peeled a section of carpet across from Gerry’s desk up, revealing a trap door. “Hurry up.”

The others clamored down the narrow opening, bypassing the rope ladder and landing with soft thumps. Martin turned back to look at Prentiss one last time. 

“Child of the earth.” Jane hissed, low and sweet. “You fight so hard against your kin. We’re cousins, you and us.”

“You hardly deserve the honour of feeding the Buried, but mark my words, Jane Prentiss. One day you will be a feast for the one who sleeps in the silt, your worms leaving your worthless body, and when you scream for them, when you mourn for the only ones who loved you—you will choke on your own grave soil.” Martin dropped down to join the others in the dark, closing the trap door behind him.

“Which way do we go?” Tim whispered. Everything seemed to press in in the dark, seemed to require the reverence of quiet. “I can’t tell left from right down here.”

“I can see fine.” Jon said. 

“You suck.” 

“That’s juvenile, Timothy.”

“Doesn’t make it less true, Jonathan.”

“Quit it.” Sasha said. “Martin—we’re lost without you. Where do we go?”

Martin hummed, listening to the earth around him. He laid a hand on the rough wall, and it welcomed him. “We’ll go left. Jon, you guide Sasha, I’ll guide Tim. If we get separated for whatever reason, keep following the path until you reach a red lantern. Then turn right, left, right, and you’ll come up outside round the back of the Institute.” Martin paused. “If the shadows look wrong, ignore them. And if you hear guttural sounds that might be words, don’t go closer to find out what they might be saying.” He grabbed Tim’s hand, tugging him along close behind him as he led the way. 

“Martin…” Jon said when they’d put a decent amount of distance between them and Prentiss with no sign of pursuit. “How much time have you spent in these tunnels?”

Martin glanced behind, meeting Jon’s piercing gaze through the dark. He could still make out the pale irises and slit pupils. “I really don’t know, Jon.” He answered distractedly as he pushed forward. It was mostly the truth. The minutes bled into hours down here. He spent his breaks tucked into the beckoning earth, had even spent a day or two off down below. 

“Have you—how far have you been? Have you seen it all?”

“Jon, this isn’t a bloody tour.” Sasha muttered. A second later she yelped. “Chrissake, Jon, the _claws_.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Jon sighed.

“I don’t know.” Martin answered truthfully as he guided them around a bend you could miss easily in the dense shadows, wall blending into dirt at odd angles. “I think—I think I’ve tracked most of it by now. But there are some parts—there are some parts even the Buried can’t reach. I think I’ve—I’ve been somewhere, been to the heart of this place but every time I try to remember, I feel the Watcher searing down, refusing to let me See. I know when I’m getting close, though, because the pressure in my skull increases with each step, and then the needles start.”

“I wonder what It’s keeping down here..” Jon mused. Martin could practically hear the gears of his mind spinning in all directions, gripping at possibilities. 

“Elias probably knows.” Tim said.

“But he’d never admit it.” Sasha pointed out.

Martin stopped short, causing Tim to crash right into him, which had the domino effect of Jon and Sasha crashing as well. They had just reached the red lantern.

“ _Martin_.” 

There was a distant sound, almost a humming? That wasn’t quite right. It was growing, drawing near, silky whispers traveling ahead.

Jon swore.

“What is it—” Sasha broke off as Martin pushed Tim into her arms. 

_Join us rest in us feed us let us love you down to your bones._

“New plan.” Martin said. “Sasha, take Tim through the labyrinth. You can protect just the one of us, right?”

“Hold on—” Tim began but Sasha cut him off.

“Yes. I can mind one of you.”

“Right. Take Tim aboveground. Get help if you can but most importantly get as far away from here as possible.”

“We won’t abandon—” Tim protested, only to be cut off by Jon.

“Do it.” He said soberly. “Martin and I are the only ones who have a shot down here.”

Sasha extended her hand and Tim clasped it reluctantly. “Promise me you’ll survive.”

“I’m too prideful to let this be the way I die.” Jon said instead.

“It would make for a rather disappointing headstone.” Tim agreed. He turned his attention to Martin. 

Martin simply put a hand on his shoulder. 

And then Tim and Sasha passed through the door that wasn’t and he and Jon were alone. 

“Martin—”

“Run, Jon.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Jon.” Martin stared down at the very petite, very incensed man, scowl illuminated by the low crimson light. “You’re sick. You look like a dandelion could best you in a boxing match. Right, left, right. I’ll be right behind you.” 

Jon shuffled from foot to foot with chaotic energy. “I won’t leave you to die by yourself down here.”

“You should be more worried about Prentiss.” Martin smiled, a thin, wan crescent. “She’s in my domain now, after all.” He turned on his heel, walking in the direction of the whispers that dripped like honey through his mind. 

Jon caught his hand. When Martin looked down, Jon looked just as surprised by the action as him.

“Come back.” Jon said simply.

Martin swallowed hard, nodding.

He ran toward the horde.

He ran toward a reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin sighs as he erases the board and writes '0' under "Days Since Last Worm Incident in the Archives."


	13. what happens in the tunnels stays in the tunnels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which something sordid happens to Jane Prentiss, Martin gets a new look, and everyone has a slumber party sponsored by trauma. 
> 
> CWs this chapter: canon typical worm nastiness, body horror, gore, decay, bloodthirst, maiming, self-deprecation, verbal cruelty, compulsion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello fam! Been a hot minute since I could sit down and crank out a chapter and I kinda ran away with this one. I live a lifestyle too chaotic for word count consistency, I don't know her. 
> 
> Hope you all are well and safe! As always, thank you for reading and sending encouragement my way. I also l o v e to hear your thoughts on what goes down and what your theories are! The fun part about writing this piece is I plot it in broad strokes and then let whatever happens happen when I actually get to writing it out.

When Martin came out of the tunnels and rounded to the front of the Institute, he was barefoot in the grass and missing his face.

Well. _Part_ of his face, but that was sufficiently horrifying for Jon.

“My God. Martin. What happened? Are you o—you cannot possibly be okay.” Jon said, rushing forward. 

“Oh. You found Poe.” Martin noted distractedly. There were holes in both his forearms, riddling his flesh from the wrist up to the joint of his elbows. He was missing part of his nose and cheek, gashes with the flesh and cartilage missing, a patchwork of blood and mud and decay. Ropes of blackish green liquid drizzled down his face, viscous as honey, seeping into the gaps in the mud. Mould crawled in a latticework around the rings of raw flesh on his arms.

“He was—he was wandering around mewling and I—even he doesn’t deserve to get eaten by worms.” Jon trailed off, unnerved by the other man’s nonchalance.

“Oh. They got your face too.” Martin frowned. 

“Yes, well. Tim and I both, actually. He’s still over there with the medical team. Turns out there were still some worms in our hair and clothes.” He sighed. “We’ll both scar, supernatural wounds still leave a mark, vampire or not.” He shook his head. “But enough about us, Martin, Chrissake you don’t have a nose! Why are you not alarmed about this?”

Martin reached for his face reflexively, then thought better of it at the last second. “Oh. Hmm. Yeah. Made a plaster of mud before Prentiss could get her rot inside. Rather nasty but it’ll be fine once I get it cleaned off and have a mirror to reshape my nose in.”

“Reshape your—” Jon cut off with a choking noise.

“The Buried can reshape ourselves like clay, Jon, you know this.”

“Well I’ve not the occasion to—to witness it!” Jon almost, almost squeaked. “And regardless, doesn’t it hurt in the meantime?”

Martin hummed. He looked down at his shaking hands. “Now that you mention it, I think I may be in shock. Interesting.”

“Martin. Glad to see you made it out relatively unscathed. Well, actually, you’re quite, ah, _scathed_.” Elias strode up to them, put together as always, not a hair out of place despite a sudden evacuation due to an onslaught of worms. “However did you manage? And where is Jane Prentiss?”

Martin’s gaze focused a little then. “We don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

Elias arched a perfect brow. “I see. Might I inquire what exactly happened to her?”

The predatory uptick of the corner of Martin’s mouth almost made Jon shudder. He was well aware all avatars were capable of various atrocities but he just couldn’t imagine Martin, sweet, cheery, knit jumper, flower boy _Martin_ doing a single one of those things. Not of his own volition, and not with any _enjoyment_.

Martin ran a destroyed hand through his hair, the scraps of flowers and thorns catching in his fingers and falling to the ground. “I really don’t think you want to know.”

Elias looked at him appraisingly a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Now that everyone is accounted for. The rest of the Institute staff have safely made it home, seems only the Archives was truly caught in the crossfire, as it were. I will, of course, require official statements from the team eventually, but at present I encourage you all to go home and recuperate through tomorrow. A clean up crew will get things into sorts in the meantime. Mr. Stoker has already left with Ms. James, to be deposited at Mike Crew’s. She will then be residing in the Labyrinth until she returns to work. If that is satisfactory to your concerns, please accept medical treatment and then go home.”

Jon waved a hand. “I’m fine.”

Martin was patently not fine, but he voiced his agreement. Elias did not push the issue.

“Speaking of Mike Crew…” Jon began. Now that the adrenaline had worn off and he knew Martin and the rest of his team were safe and not banged up beyond repair, he remembered the extraction that had been underway. “The ritual—was it stopped? Did Daisy--?”

“The Unknowing was successfully disrupted. Nikola Orsinov and several of her accomplices were neutralized, to speak in the terms of polite company. I have received notice that the rest of Containment are en route as we speak. I have nothing else to offer at the moment. Now I really do insist, please retire to your abodes. I dread to have to find a new Archivist so soon if you should drop dead from not taking care of yourself. Wasteful.” With that, Elias turned on his heels and strode away in the direction of the lingering medics and Section 31 officers.

There was a stretch of silence as Jon held Poe and looked at Martin and Martin looked at seemingly nothing. 

“So.” Jon coughed, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “What are we to do?”

Martin met his eye then, and a trace of his usual, warm self peeked through. “Rather a spectacular day, huh?” He laughed slightly, then sobered. “Well. You should go home. You’re still sick after all, and today’s excitement could not have helped that at all.” He reached for Jon and Jon tensed, unsure of what was going to happen but not entirely willing to flinch away. 

It turned out Martin just wanted Poe. The cat mewled plaintively and began to purr as soon as he was cradled in Martin’s arms—well, as much as glass crunching underfoot is a purr. “Hullo Poe. I’m glad you made it out alright.” He planted a kiss on the hellbeast’s forehead, avoiding the cluster of eyes that rested there. 

“But where will you go?” Jon asked. He certainly could not go back to the storage room that had been his refuge this last month.

“Well, now that Jane is a nonissue I figured I’d hang about in the tunnels until the cleanup crew is through.”

Jon made a scandalized noise. “Martin! You are wounded! You can’t just—just wander about in the dark!”

Martin looked at him queerly. “Jon. I’ll be safe there. It’s an extension of the Buried. In fact, it’ll probably do me more good than anywhere else.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Martin scritched behind Poe’s ears, unbothered.

“Come back to my flat.” Jon could hardly believe the words coming out of his own mouth as he said them.

Martin must have felt similarly, because his savaged hand froze and Poe complained. “What?”

“I said—I said come with me. Stay at my flat until we’re allowed to return. I’ve got a perfectly good sofa.”

“All my things are in the Institute. And Poe—”

“I’ll lend you some clothes. I owe you after ruining this, anyways.” He gestured to the knit jumper, which was now crusted with blood and god knows what else and unraveled in multiple places. “And bring the cat.” The last part was said through gritted teeth as if he had to pull each word out with a vise.

“Oh, you’re serious then.” Martin said in dazed surprise. “Al—alright. Thank you.” 

Jon nodded stiffly. “Come along, then.” After a few steps he paused. “We should get you some shoes. From…somewhere.” 

Martin looked down at his bare feet, flexed them in the grass. “No matter. I only wear shoes when I have to, anyways. Elias won’t abide it otherwise and it tends to make people uncomfortable.” He smiled, a sudden shock of sunshine against the backdrop of this horrid day. “On the train, people sometimes assume I’m homeless.”

Jon didn’t know what to say to that—none of today’s events were accounted for in his catalog of appropriate things to say to people at any given time. He just accepted it at face value—he really didn’t know where he would have acquired trainers in any case. 

They traveled mostly in silence, Martin in a soft daze, looking at everything as if it was the first time he’d seen anything like it. For Jon’s part, he was lost in consternation, going over every little failing, over every little detail he missed, how he could have done better, been better. There was also a grating, building anxiety over Martin. It wasn’t quite _panic_ , but certainly the emotions went to the same family reunions. He rarely let people into his flat. Georgie and Daisy were permitted almost always. On occasion he hosted another of his Hunt brethren, but even with the inherent intimacy of serving the same fear god, Jon did not have any deep desire to associate with his kin. And there was the general needling worry over Martin himself, which was new and strange and made him feel a bit sick if he was being brutally honest with himself, which he endeavoured to never be. 

Martin with the unexpected ferocity, the unexpected courage, the unexpected initiative in the tunnels and willingness to lay down everything to face Prentiss alone. Martin with the carcasses of flowers in his hair as he walked barefoot beside him on the sidewalk distractedly whispering sweet nothings to what was truly an insult to cats everywhere. With the face that was, well, dripping onto other parts of his face. Martin who he herded to the inner bit of the sidewalk, taking the shoulder by the street himself. 

He already missed the simplicity of loathing Martin. 

“Well. Here we are.” Jon said as they drew up to the door to his flat. He made quick business of getting inside, anxious to cleanse himself of the day. He glanced back at Martin, clearing his throat. “I uh, I’ll fetch some fresh linens and clothes and a towel for you. I’ve only the one W.C., you go ahead first. I’m sure you’re eager to get cleaned up.”

Martin stood in the middle of the living space, casting his gaze around the room, touching on the kitchenette, the sofa snug against the wall, all the little adornments that cobbled together the home life of Jonathan Sims. Jon shifted from foot to foot again, nerves mounting.

“Your home is quite lovely.” Martin said at last. “Such warm colours. Warm lighting. I always knew it would be warm lighting for you. Tim joked that you lived in an empty flat except for a coffin once. Sasha said no, you’d have an area rug under the coffin and a sea of statements lining the coffin instead of velvet. But I said it would be warm lighting.” He turned his gaze on Jon, and the earnestness there, the complete lack of his usual blustering, cinched Jon’s heart. “Everything else was up in the air, though.” He shook his head. “A shower would be nice. Once I scrub off the Corruption I can get to mending my face and all the other bits.”

As much as Jon desperately wanted to shower, to take off the top layer of skin imprinted with the feeling of worms and dirt and sweat, he was relieved that Martin accepted the hospitality. Looking at his ruined face with the mess of flesh and— _god_ —bone peeking through, was about to have him ill.

Martin sat placidly at the small kitchen table as Jon gathered him toiletries. When Jon returned, Poe was slinking about, phasing through furniture, getting a read on his new environment. The way Martin was looking at nothing in particular was quite unsettling and Jon wondered if perhaps he had made a mistake in not insisting Martin get checked out by the medics.

“Martin?”

The bigger man flinched slightly. “Yes, Jon?”

“I’ve uh, got everything prepared for you in the loo. I’ll get the sofa set up while you get washed up.”

“Thank you.” The sudden vibrance in Martin’s face, the guileless, wholehearted appreciation, was just as staggering as the complete absence of that light.

“Yes, well. Yes.” Jon said inadequately. As Martin left the room, he set about tucking the sheets into the sofa, puffing pillows, tweaking things incessantly out of compulsion. When he was, at last, satisfied, he became aware of the incredible keening of his body. With nothing to preoccupy him, he was simply meat piloted by exhaustion and _need_ , every cell screaming for sustenance. He crossed to the fridge, opening it to survey the selection available. There were pristine bags of every blood type, and some mixed like cocktails. None looked particularly appealing, his sickness making him exponentially pickier than usual. He wanted something fresh from the vein, alive. But after last night’s disaster, he couldn’t trust himself to responsibly acquire such a thing. And he refused to disgrace himself further or—god—put Martin in such a situation again.

He was just resigning himself to a fresh pouch of O positive when he heard Martin approaching down the short hall. He resolutely lifted the pouch to his lips, taking a dissatisfying sip, refusing to feel uncomfortable in his own den.

“I was just thinking you’d likely be hungry.” Martin said sincerely. “Not sure how you even made it through the tunnels, honestly. No insult to your capabilities, of course. But you are far from being right as rain at the moment.” He paused. “I’m rambling. Sorry.” The blush he’d been lacking finally returned, creeping up from his neck. Jon tried hard not to be titillated by the rush of blood. He was a professional, dammit. 

“Yes, well. Avoiding being eaten alive by a horde of flesh hungry worms is rather motivating.” He said dryly. “You’re looking better.” It was true—Martin looked a lot better with his wet curls and clean clothes—an old pair of Jon’s joggers and a novelty shirt Georgie had foisted on him from some tacky attraction or other—and with his face looking, well, more face-like. He was both grateful and disappointed he hadn’t witnessed the process of Martin sculpting his face anew, of the mud running down in slick tracks, of him smoothing new flesh over where he’d been tunneled through by worms. 

The gratitude definitely won out.

Martin’s blush deepened. “I feel better. She took quite a sample of my face, huh? Didn’t much feel it at the time but showering was hell.” An undercurrent of darkness, still so foreign to Jon, bled into his expression. “No matter. I repaid her in kind and then some.”

“Are you—would you tell me what happened?”

Martin shook his head, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “You can read my statement later, if you like. I suppose you’ll have to be the one, anyways.”

Jon looked at him appraisingly, causing the man to squirm. “I have a feeling it will be quite spotty on the details.”

Martin’s lips pressed into a thin line as he avoided eye contact. “What’s important is that none of us have to worry about her ever again.”

Jon let it slide for the time being. The part of him that was rented out—he refused to call it _belonging_ —to the Eye wanted to rip it bloody out of the other man’s throat, to demand the Knowledge and drink it down until it was all in the pit of his stomach, until he could feel every detail in his skin and bones and deeper, deeper still. But he was not the Eye’s he told himself fervently, and he would do no such thing.

Unless, of course, the details would please the Hunt, to See through Martin’s eyes whatever foul and visceral things he’d done to Jane Prentiss…

“—right?” 

Jon shook his head. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Fresh is better, right? For you to heal?” Martin dipped his chin in the direction of the barely touched blood bag hanging loosely in Jon’s grip.

“Oh. Um. Well it’s certainly preferable, and it does hasten the recovery process the fresher it is.” He took another sip, self-conscious despite his best efforts. He tried to look nonchalant but missing his mouth on the first try shot that endeavour in the face. “This will do fine, however.”

“I don’t mind—donating—again.” Martin offered, clearly having to rally to get the words out.

Jon quelled the spark of interest lit in his dumb vampire instincts. “There’s no need for that, thank you.”

“I’d just—you’re offering your home up to me and I know you’d rather—you’re such a private person.” He bumbled. “I’d just like to offer something in return.”

“Martin, this isn’t a transaction. And besides, you took on the Hive for me—for us—” He amended quickly. “I’m the one indebted to you, if it’s a question of that.”

“I understand.” Martin nodded, fiddling with the hem of Jon’s shirt. “I know I wasn’t—I know you have better options.” He turned away quickly, hiding his expression, but the way he bent in on himself gave him away.

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face so hard it was almost exfoliating. Was he really going to accept Martin’s offer so he didn’t have his _feelings_ hurt? 

Bloody hell.

“On second thought.” He said reluctantly. “I would appreciate it—if you’re not just offering out of guilt, of course. I, ah, appreciate the opportunity to get back into shape as swiftly as possible so I’m actually useful to the team.” 

“Oh!” Martin turned back round, running a hand through his still-dripping hair. “Yes of course. I mean, it’s not because I feel bad. Well, I _do_ feel bad but I wouldn’t just—it’s not only—I just want you to feel better and if there’s something I can do to help you recover quicker—”

Jon held up a hand. “That’s…quite sufficient, thank you.” He took one more bracing sip of prepackaged blood before replacing it back in the fridge. His hand rested on the handle. “I do prefer to get cleaned up, first. I feel like I’ve rolled around in a ball pit full of grime and germs and—well, that’s actually pretty much what a regular ball pit is.”

Martin failed at stifling a laugh.

“And what is amusing.” Jon said flatly.

“I just never imagined hearing you refer to a ball pit. I don’t know I was convinced you even knew what one was, if I was asked about it.”

“Of course I know what a ball pit is. I was a _child_ once.” Jon said disdainfully.

“Tim says—” He cut himself off.

“And what does Tim say.” Jon narrowed his eyes, speaking in dangerously measured words.

“Oh, you know, Tim says so many things.” Martin flapped a hand. 

“Tell me, Martin.”

“It’s really not—”

**“Tell me.”** Jon immediately felt bad for using his abilities on Martin but he was rather out of stock of patience and principles and incredibly overstocked on annoyance.

“Tim says you came out of the womb grown. Already in a sweater vest.” Martin said in a rush before clapping a hand over his mouth. He slowly brought his hand down, looking hurt. “That wasn’t very kind Jon.”

The look of betrayal and his soft, heatless words had no right, _no right_ to make Jon feel worse than if Martin had yelled or swore at him.

“I’ve never professed to being kind.” He said in a murmur. He looked away. “You’re right. I apologize.” He made to escape, a coward as always underneath the bite and bluntness and ability to tear one’s head from one’s body without much of an effort. 

Turns out none of those things required bravery.

“Please make yourself at home.” Jon swept a hand to indicate the entire flat. “I’ve snacks and Netflix and things other people enjoy as well, I hope.” 

As soon as the water began pouring over him, blessedly sloughing off the day, Jon relaxed a fraction, letting out a breath that felt like it had nested in his lungs for millennia. By the time he shut the water off, he felt like he was notably lighter from the inside out.

“Alright—” He began as he strode back into the living area, pajamas pressed against his skin with residual moisture. 

He stopped short.

He was not prepared for what he saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon to Martin: put that face back where it came from or so help me


	14. tiding over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon gets an anatomy lesson, Jon gets in a fistfight with the concept of Intimacy, and tragedy befalls the Institute. 
> 
> CWs this chapter: worm-related trauma, blood, blood sharing, body horror, mild gore, eco horror, night terrors, death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello fam! I hope the world is being gentle with you! All I'm gonna say about this chapter is look. Look. LOOK. Stephenie Meyer had to go and drop Midnight Sun, and it's sold out three times at the bookstore I manage, and the nostalgia is high, so we're gonna get a lil spicy here for a moment with the vampire stuff.

Martin had his hand wrist-deep in his chest cavity. Jon couldn’t tell root from bone as they twined to form his ribs. Flowers leaked through his ribcage, vibrant petals thrumming in time with his heartbeat. Where Martin’s fingers touched, his skin became clay. As he pulled, a string of flowers unspooled from his chest like fairy lights. Martin picked them off one by one, nesting them in his hair, a crown of honeysuckle and daffodils. He let out a sigh that sounded like it came from the bottom of his spirit. The sigh was quickly followed by a _tsk_.

“Poe! Stop that.” The eldritch cat had been batting a thread of ferns that protruded from where Jon would typically expect a stomach. Jon let out a slightly hysterical noise, and Martin finally looked up. “Oh! Oh. So sorry, Jon. I, uh, um, thought you would be a bit longer.” 

“I—yes. I’m, uh, here now.” He knew he sounded like a dazed fool. He figured seeing someone fiddle around with their insides which were half forest was a valid reason to be struck dumb. His eyes were panicking, seeing things that were not meant to be in a human body raw and vulnerable in the warm light.

Martin looked down at his open torso, back at Jon, then down again. “This—ah. Hmm. Well, this is not ideal.” As Jon watched, he slid his hands over his body, slicking clay back into clay until he was whole and flesh once more. He glanced up at Jon through his eyelashes self-consciously before hurriedly tugging the novelty t-shirt back on. He crossed his arms around himself protectively, burrowing slightly deeper into the cushion of the sofa, avoiding eye contact while a pretty flush claimed his cheeks.

“I had always thought you just manifested the flowers in your hair.” Jon said, taking a clinical tack. Yes, that was comfortable territory. 

“I—no.” Martin said slowly. “I grow them. Given, it’s much like manifestation, but they just kind of, hmm, incubate inside.”

“Don’t they need light?” Once the first question rolled off his tongue, a low static built in the back of his skull, curiosity lit, a fire that would consume and consume until it burned down to the wick and there was no more.

“I am the light.” Martin said. His brow furrowed. “Or, rather, they get light through me.”

“I suppose that’s how they get water, too, then.” Jon said without satisfaction. He wanted knowledge raw and bloody and new to gnaw on. It was a bad habit, leaning in to the influence of the Eye, but he had a rather addictive personality to begin with.

“Yes, that’s right.” Martin still avoided eye contact, looking down at Poe as the cat curled into his lap. Jon wondered if he was being so dodgy because he felt overexposed.

“Are my questions making you nervous?” Jon frowned. Just a month ago he wouldn’t have noticed Martin’s discomfort, and if he had, he would have likely deemed it a fair trade for the pay off of knowledge. 

“No. Yes? I don’t—I’m not sure. Honestly I expected you to be disgusted.” His voice tapered off into a mumble.

“Martin. This is hardly the first time I’ve seen something’s insides.” Jon drawled. He had in fact seen quite a variety of insides, game, birds of prey, and a human once every blue moon. “And yours are, without a doubt, the most beautiful I’ve seen.” 

Jon didn’t realize fully what he’d said until Martin’s eyes widened, as if Jon giving him any form of compliment triggered a fight or flight response. Jon sincerely hoped he didn’t try to phase through his floor. He was several storeys up. “I, ah, I mean—what I meant to say.” Jon began, stumbling over himself in a rush to toss water on the dumpster fire of a conversation. “It’s not much competition, as you’d imagine.” 

That startled a chuckle out of Martin. 

It was not strictly true, of course. Were Jon still human when he’d seen his first corpse, intestines shining slick in the moonlight, he would have retched and not eaten for days. But through the lens of his patron, he saw the beauty in it, the art within the viscera, all bold colours and layered textures that made up the tapestry of a heartbeat. 

But he couldn’t say that. 

Martin tucked a sprig of honeysuckle behind his ear, then met Jon’s gaze with a look that was both shy and determined. The steel of it within the silk did something odd to Jon’s knees. “Well. Are you still hungry?”

Jon nodded, approaching in even steps, all business. He was going to do this right, prove to Martin—not that he had to prove anything to anyone—that he was not some bloodthirsty young buck who couldn’t control his preternatural urges. He took a seat beside Martin. He met the other man’s eyes again, taking his measure before he did anything else. Martin gulped and nodded. Jon tracked the movement with interest, but offered his hand for Martin’s own.

“It’ll be just like before.” Jon said, voice smoothing into a murmur. He remembered Martin didn’t like to be compelled, either by Hunt or by Eye, so he kept the power out of his voice, just easing him with whatever comforts his true voice could provide. Given his personality, he doubted that he had any comforts to give. “A sting like a vaccine, and then numbness.” He actually had the ability to make it feel good, even. Similar to a snake, he could inject dopamine with his bite. Or he could make it much, much worse.

The Hunt preferred that. 

For better or worse, though, avatars reacted differently to the effects of his bite, and he’d learned not to take a risk on the toss of the coin. 

Martin proffered his wrist. His nails were painted with a warm orange varnish. He must have done those last night, when he himself was—incapacitated. When Jon wrapped his fingers around his wrist, he flinched.

“Something wrong?” Jon asked. “You don’t have to do this, Martin. In fact, I insist we don’t if it’s making you any kind of uncomfortable.”

“No, no. It’s fine I’m fine.” Martin heaved a breath. “You’re just, um, a bit cold.”

Jon didn’t have an answer for that, he was not a thermostat, so he just proceeded. He held Martin in a gentle grip, teeth sliding into flesh in a neat puncture, razor sharp. Martin sucked in a breath. This time, Jon was much more present, his mind feverless and focused. He almost sighed in contentment at the sensation of blood running in steady rivulets down his throat. If he had to compare the two in terms anyone could understand, drinking blood fresh from the vein instead of via sealed medical bags was as a newly opened can of pop to one that had sat for hours, gone flat. The same essential flavours, but dead. Sufficiency, no vibrancy. He much preferred eating off the clock when he could Hunt in earnest. 

Determined to be polite vampire society, Jon did not overindulge, pulling back after only a minute or so. He ran his tongue once over the bite mark to speed up the coagulation and fend off any bacteria that were eager to creep into an open wound. See, he told himself, this is a proper feeding and you are a good vampire, a class act. 

Then Martin had to go and make a curious noise, a noise in the back of his throat that Jon wanted to strip bare and turn over in his palm until he understood it. Martin glanced down at him, bewildered. Jon leaned forward, only remembering to glance up for permission at the last second. Martin gave a sharp, brief nod, and Jon sank his teeth into his neck. Martin tensed and he paused, beginning to withdraw, only for Martin to run his hand over the back of Jon’s hair and tuck him closer. _Oh_ , Jon thought. This was strange and new and terrifyingly irresponsible and impulsive—the Eye part of him was exultant of a fresh experience, needling him on to be even more reckless. The Hunt part of him was ambivalent. This was a mere drop of blood in the bath. The part of him that was his own and solely his own was just one big metaphysical exclamation point. This was soft and close, too close. He had never gotten this close to someone, barring Georgie and Daisy, without leaving with their dying blood in his teeth. 

Eventually he leaned back, almost forgetting to salve the wound, startled into action by the slow gathering of blood threatening to spill down Martin’s throat. When he sat all the way up, he put some space in between them, scooting to the far end of the sofa. When Martin reached for him, he had the oddest impulse to bolt. Martin swiped his thumb across Jon’s bottom lip, leaning back to reveal it slick with blood. Jon pressed his fingertips onto his lips in awe. Martin tilted his finger this way and that, assessing it in the warm light cast by the lamp on the end table. When he moved to wipe it on his trousers— _Jon’s_ trousers, rude—Jon shot a hand out and stayed his wrist, jerking the hand back towards himself. 

“Mine.” He said emphatically, licking it clean. A second later the chagrin kicked in. If there was one thing he hated about his avatar nature, it was the irrational possessive streak. “Christ. Sorry.” He ducked his head. Trust him to try to prove that he was a dignified vampire and end up looking like a fucking animal.

He was surprised by Martin patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Yours. I gave it to you.” He coughed. “So, uh. Was that—was that enough? Do you feel better yet?”

Jon looked up at him in wonderment. Who was Martin Blackwood, that he met every terrible thing with ease? Not fearlessness, mind you, but he recalibrated and he just…just adapted, against all odds.

Martin laughed, breaking the tension. He scrunched up his nose. “I just realised, I probably taste like dirt.”

Jon was bewildered into a laugh. “Hm. Maybe notes of it. It’s a bit like wine or water. Blood is generally the same across the board but you can taste the nuance.” Jon shrugged. “No matter either way. Hardly in a position to be choosy.”

Martin perked up. “Most people don’t understand the water thing. I could tell even before becoming an avatar. Even have a shortlist of the best and worst bottling companies.” 

Jon’s lips quirked up at one corner. “I’m not quite so thorough.” He hummed. “Hmph. I never thought of it but I imagine water as an avatar of the Buried is quite an experience. You don’t mostly taste like dirt.” He tacked on suddenly. For some reason it was vital Martin understand this. “A bit earthy, but you’re more floral, really.” He chuckled. “I swear I could almost taste tea.”

Martin’s blush deepened, but he looked pleased. 

Jon got up abruptly. “Well, it’s rather late and we’ve been through quite the ordeal, I’m going to retire for the night.” 

“Oh—yes. Right. Definitely.” Martin looked on in bewilderment at Jon’s hasty retreat. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.” When Jon made it to his room, he closed the door, leaning against it briefly to collect himself. He made a beeline for his bed—which was not a coffin, thank you much—and delved into the sheets, casting the duvet round himself like a shield. 

That night he dreamt fitfully, nightmares blending into one another. There were worms in his brain, he could feel them tunneling, making a labyrinth to match the one that lurked underneath the Institute. Daisy was beside him, chewing at the muscle and fat of someone—something—that shouldn’t have either of those. Something with a cracked mask of a face. Basira watched from overhead, wings outstretched to cradle the sun. 

There was a drip, drip, dripping over his face, an eclipse that blotted out Basira. He stared up into Martin’s face. Blood pooled over his lips, spilling down his throat, soaking the neck of his shirt and falling in a weighted rain that blinded Jon, like honey dripped into his eyes. As his vision succumbed, he saw Martin lean over his chest. It was burst open with flowers. Martin picked a handful of them, shoving them blossom by blossom into his mouth.

Martin was gone before Jon woke up. He had left a perfectly timed cuppa on the counter, the sheets folded on the sofa, and a note written in his loopy scrawl.

_Thanks for letting me crash. Headed back to my flat now that Jane is gone. -M.B._

Jon ran his fingers over the paper indented with ink. He took a sip of his tea—perfectly brewed— and examined the pale silver of his newly baptised scars in the sunlight. 

A horrible sound like metal utensils hitting linoleum came from behind the sofa. He peeked over the back. Poe looked up at him balefully.

“Fuck.”

xxx

As soon as the Archival Offices were cleared for resuming business, Elias and HR gathered the team into the meeting room. Ingrid’s tarantula emissaries skittered around the room, dispersing and collecting forms. 

“As the first order of business, I would like to say I am deeply relieved that the only damages suffered due to the infiltration of Jane Prentiss were strictly material. Things can be replaced. You are much more difficult to replace.” Elias said gravely. Tim and Sasha exchanged a glance. No one had ever accused Elias of having a good bedside manner. “Furthermore, you will be receiving hazard pay and extra vacation days as recompense for the incident. Contact has been made with the local den of the Corruption and we have been assured that the Hive acted on its own and is not representative of their diplomatic intentions with the Institute.” Elias smiled wanly. 

Jon scoffed. Elias’s smile grew marginally.

“On to our second order of business.” At this, Elias’s expression became something made of ice. The air crackled around him, and Jon could almost swear Elias had too many eyes and too little face. “I regret to inform you that Containment was unable to come to your aid as they were dealing with their own emergency. It was no secret they were out in the field to disrupt a rogue Stranger ritual piloted by Nikola Orsinov. Suffice it to say, she is no longer a concern. However.” He locked gazes with Jon, gaze intense and unrelenting. “This was not without terrible cost.” 

The air in the room became the vacuum of space. He glanced at Tim, but it wasn’t his doing. 

“I so wish I did not have to deliver this news.” Elias continued, hand pressed to his heart. 

Jon’s nails dug into his palms, forming brutal crescents.

“Alice Tonner is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah the last half of the chapter hurt to write. Partially because of secondhand embarassment and just...well. Things are gonna be heavy for a minute. But have hope, have hope.


	15. six feet under and then some

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we honor the life and death and life of Daisy Tonner. 
> 
> CWs this chapter: verbal cruelty, lashing out, blood, body horror, grief, anger, being buried alive, loss of sense of self, threats of violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello friends and fam! I hope the universe is treating you kindly this week and every other. 
> 
> This was...a whirlwind for me to write. The end of it was something I knew I was writing toward but everything getting there was spur of the moment, written on autopilot, and I did not expect to be this deeply affected. This is the first funeral scene I've written, so that's part of it. But my, the weight of grief.
> 
> Chins up, though, there are light things coming!

“Daisy never knew when to quit. She was adrenaline personified. Everything about her was fierce. Driven. She might not be the first to draw blood, but she always made sure she was the last. She protected the people she cared about the same way she fought, with everything she had, pushing the limits.” Basira’s hands were folded in front of her. You could only tell she was trembling—just a slight vibration—with eyes as sharp as Jon’s. 

One of her grey wings was stretched out, the other curled in on her body, still healing from the clash with Nikola and the Stranger vigilantes. She wore a dark velvet suit and dark green hijab, head bowed as she stood over the headstone like an omen. She was blindfolded, accompanied by Agnes. Half of her injuries were from being restrained by her own teammates, who’d she’d assaulted during the extraction effort. A side effect of prolonged exposure to the Unknowing, she’d developed Capgras syndrome, believing everyone around her were shallow imitations of the people she knew. 

There had been no remains for Containment to carry back. No scrap of fabric, stray tooth, any proof that Daisy Tonner had ever existed. A plain stone marked her false grave, inscribed with the words “Onward to the Ever Hunt.” They had consulted Jon on what to engrave. She had no next of kin. No family. Jon was the closest thing she had. 

Agnes led Basira back into the lopsided circle of mourners, the Archival team, Containment, Elias, and a few others from the Institute sprinkled throughout. No one—barring Jon—was present from the Hunt. They would have their own ceremony, a true ceremony, later, under the cleansing moonlight. They would run where Daisy could not, chase where Daisy could not, spill blood where Daisy could not.

Agnes stepped forward, having passed Basira off to Mike. Her face was obscured by a black lace veil that paired with her Victorian gown. She knelt and rested a hand on the cold face of the grave, gown pooling around her feet. “You were a blaze upon this earth, burning so fast, not a single one of us could catch up.” She stood up.

Melanie took her place. She tugged at the Peter Pan collar of her dark dress, fiddling with the fabric with one hand, the other clenched in a fist at her side, knuckles ghost-white. “You saved my skin more than once. And I can’t believe I’m saying this—but I’m going to miss you ranting about the _goddamn_ Archers.”

Mike was next, escorted by Tim, who rested his hand on the other man’s upper arm. They wore almost identical deep blue suits, so deep they were almost black, giving off the impression of sunlight glancing off the feathers of a crow. Tim merely bowed his head as Mike spoke. “You didn’t know when to quit. I’m not convinced you even knew what quitting was.” He huffed out a broken laugh. “The office is going to be a whole lot less exciting without you around to stir things up.”

Basira’s hand was a firm but gentle weight on Jon’s shoulder. “Would you like to?”

Jon swallowed hard. “I shall.” Of course he didn’t want to speak words over his best friend’s farce of a grave. He didn’t want to speak at all. He wanted to speak in nothing but howls and screams and rage. He wanted to forget everything but the taste of blood in his teeth. He didn’t want to feel the hollow space in his heart or the bone deep ache of loss. He didn’t want to think. 

He let out a shuddering, steeling breath, bracing himself as he took his place at the front of the gathering. He leaned down, fingers clenched around the unfeeling stone for support. He looked at the surrounding people, Elias in his dark purple suit, expressionless. Martin and Sasha linking arms, her beaded dress brushing against the grey tweed suit that did not fit him properly at all. In her hand was the talisman that contained part of Gerry’s soul, allowing him to join them. He was more immaterial than not, heavy boots almost fading into the damp grass. Black tears trailed down his cheeks.

Most of them only knew Daisy in passing, who only knew the bright parts of her at the surface. Jon knew what lurked beneath, the many-eyed hound that cast shadows bigger than itself everywhere it went. The exultant energy as she reveled in freshly spilt blood. The beam of her smile over a chipped mug, the accuracy with which she caught caramel corn in her mouth as he tossed it across the room.

Jon knew every ugly inch of Daisy Tonner, and he loved her with his whole wretched heart.

“You were an absolute menace.” He said softly. “You got on my every last nerve and when you ran out of those, you went straight for the marrow. But I was looking forward to being annoyed for the rest of our lives.” He looked away from the small crowd. If he said anymore, he would unravel. He imagined Daisy jabbing him with a sharp elbow to the stomach, telling him to quit spouting syrup. His fingers tightened on the headstone, claws tapping against its face. 

When it was apparent Jon would not be saying anything more, there was a somber procession, each attendee leaving a flower adorned with a droplet of their blood on the grave soil, weaving a blanket of vibrant grief. 

They dissolved in silence, going their separate ways. No one would be returning to work that day. Elias had offered Basira and Jon extra time off for bereavement as they were the “most deeply affected” by the loss. But Jon had said he’d rather keep on keeping on as per usual and he suspected Basira would do the same. He didn’t know her as well as Daisy, but he saw a reflection in her. The certainty that if either of them slowed down, if they kept company with only their own thoughts, they would disintegrate, their atoms simply giving up. They needed friction, momentum, _distraction_.

“Jon.” 

Jon turned to find Martin radiating with nervous energy. It set him on edge. He simply waited for Martin to speak, staring with an empty gaze. 

“I, uh. I know Daisy meant—so much to you.” He began with stilted words, running a hand through his hair, an anxious habit. Jon idly noticed he was wearing a crown of forget-me-nots, the blue flowers resting in stark contrast to his dark curls. “I just wanted to, to say. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. I—we all are here for you.” Martin drew himself up with a sharp sigh, determined to meet Jon’s gaze. “You aren’t in this alone.”

A dry laugh escaped him. “What could you _possibly_ do for me?” He asked numbly. 

Martin looked at a loss. “I just—I mean, I don’t know. If you want someone to—to talk to, to or just—sit there and listen. Or just sit there in silence. I’d do anything. Everything.”

“Whatever made you think that I would want anything from you.” The words were flat, cruel. 

“Yes. Of course. I’ll just—I’ll leave you be, then.” He hunched in on himself. He abruptly turned on his heel, walking fast toward the slope that led to the parking lot. There had been a meaningful shine to his eyes that Jon despised. 

Jon was almost to the peak of the slope when someone matched his stride. He looked at Sasha in his peripherals. 

“Yes, Sasha?” His voice was taut with his waning patience. He felt positively volatile, a Molotov shattering in the street, suspended in time.

“I just wanted to say—”

“Seems everyone has something to say.” He said.

“That’s what happens when people care about you. We care about you.” 

“ _I didn’t ask you to._ ” He felt his glamour shiver, knowing his avatar self was close to the surface, his jaw that unhinged to free so many ripping, tearing, slaughtering teeth. His gaunt face, his pale skin tight fitting against lean muscle. The pitch black eyes lit with slanted pupils. Everything monstrous about him was consuming him flesh and soul.

“You didn’t need to.” Sasha murmured, undeterred. “And you can’t stop it. You can’t pull the love out of our chests.”

“I can pull other things from there.” He said darkly.

Sasha shook her head sadly. “Go kill what you need to kill, Jon. Come back however you are. But come back.” She crossed the threshold of a door that wasn’t. 

Jon finally found himself blessedly, excruciatingly alone.

It continued that way for almost a month, Jon engineering a snarling space between himself and everyone else. He let Martin’s tea go cold on his desk. Eventually he started locking his door. He was almost more of a wraith than Lukas. Now that Martin had finally moved back into his flat, Jon reclaimed his refuge, haunting the halls in the dead of night, working himself to the splintering bone. He often found himself with the buzz of whiskey on his tongue, with blood dripping down his chin, with time meaning nothing at all.

And then one day a delivery came.

Half of the entity known as Breekon and Hope came bearing a casket dripping with chains. The wood was very old, with scratches scoring every inch of its surface. 

xxx

Martin was drawing up a report at his desk, casting anxious glances at Jon’s locked office every few seconds, when he felt a terrible draw. He got up from his desk so abruptly that Tim startled. Even Sasha was unsettled.

“Martin?” She asked, but he kept walking as if he didn’t hear her. Distantly, he was aware of her following him, of Tim banging on Jon’s office door, of Jon hissing out something distinctly hateful at being interrupted. 

Martin didn’t stop until he reached the Containment offices. 

Basira, finally off desk duty and able to function without fighting her teammates on sight, was tense with fury, squared off against a man with a casket. _The_ casket.

“Bold of you to show up here.” Basira snarled. Her wings twitched.

“Needed t’make one last delivery.” The squat, nondescript man said. He had a jarring accent. “There’s no more Hope, you see. Got ‘is body. Figured s’only right you get the dog’s.” His smile was black, full of crooked teeth. 

“I don’t mind making another body.” Basira whispered. 

“Basira.” Melanie said, softer than Martin had ever heard her. There was the gentlest warning in her voice. He could tell something needed to happen before the tension in the room resolved itself with bloodshed. 

“Your delivery is complete. It’s time you leave.” Martin found himself saying, eyes briefly straying from the Coffin. 

Breekon turned, just now seeing Martin. “Well, ‘ello. I believe you’re right about that.” 

It was then that the others caught up, Sasha, Tim and a reluctant Jon forming a half-moon around the entryway.

“ _You_.” Jon snarled when he caught sight of Breekon. It felt odd, unnatural, to think of Breekon as a separate entity. It was always Breekon and Hope. Now it was just Breekon and. Just one halve of a whole, the rest of him a ghostly wisp. Martin found he pitied him, just a tad.

Tim reached out to bar Jon as he made for Breekon. Jon rounded on him, fangs bared. Tim didn’t back down. “You know that’s not the right move, boss.”

“Might as well let ‘im.” Breekon said, unbothered. “There’s no point to the deliveries now. Not the same without ‘Ope.” 

“Happy to send you off to him.” Jon said, a horrible smile on his face.

“Let him go.” Basira said. Jon looked to her in disbelief. 

“He killed Daisy.” 

“Nikola killed Daisy.” Basira said, voice rough. “Besides, to let him live, listless, incomplete. That’s a worse fate for him.”

Jon looked like he did not agree. Martin imagined he was thinking along the lines of whatever left the most blood in the carpet. 

Breekon merely raised his brows. 

Sasha made room for him to pass. 

Once he was gone, they all stared at the Coffin, an obelisk with an unsettling aura, propped up in the middle of the room. Melanie moved to put a hand on one of the heavy chains. 

“Don’t.” Martin said. She glanced at him, they all did, but she dropped her hand.

“Someone get Gerry.” Basira said. “We’ll have him examine it. Tell us which Entity it belongs to.”

“No need.” Martin said, drawing nearer the dark box.

“Be careful—” Sasha moved to put a hand on his arm. He merely clasped his over hers briefly before continuing on. 

“It’s called Atlas’s Casket.” Martin said, running a hand along the hard lines of it. A small shudder ran through him. 

“How do you know that?” Jon asked, voice low. 

Martin couldn’t look away from the box. “It’s ours. You’ve read statements about it. About the man paid to watch it, living in an empty apartment complex with only it for company. About the officer who walked down the winding stairs to a place that isn’t. It draws people into the heart of the earth.” His fingers ran along the weighted chains in a dire caress.

“Martin.” There was an odd note to Jon’s voice now, one he couldn’t place, something intimate with concern, something unnerved. 

“Once you wander down the path, there’s no wandering back up. We have a nickname for it.” Martin continued. “The Bone Yard.” He held the lock like a beating heart in his palm and it was like the air was sucked out of the room. Tim put a staying hand on his wrist. 

“You don’t need to worry about me.” Martin promised. The Casket didn’t affect avatars of the Buried the same way it did others. Which, to be fair, might not be as much a relief to them as he made it sound. “We have another name for it, though, a truer name.” He turned to face the others, who were all charged with apprehension.

He focused on Basira, who was looking at him as if she could see him atom for atom, appraising him in a way she never had before. He focused on Jon, who was nigh vibrating with barely contained ferocity. 

“The Temple of Living Graves.” He said at last. 

“The Temple of…?” Melanie turned the words over, brows drawn.

“Breekon said Daisy’s in there, Martin.” Basira said. 

“I heard. And I know what you’re asking. Yes.” He sighed. “If Daisy’s in there, she’s alive.”

Basira drew in a harsh breath. Jon was actually trembling now. He stepped forward and Martin planted a hand in the middle of his chest, fending him off.

“Martin.” His voice was steel, as it had been since the funeral. But there was a bend to it, like he only had so much strength to reinforce it with and it was running out. Martin had never seen him look so desperate. “I have to.” He whispered. 

“I understand.” He shook his head. “But you can’t. If you go in, you can’t come back.”

“I don’t care.” Jon bit out in anguish, and Martin felt a stab of fear, because he knew he meant it. “I’d give everything. I have to try.”

“You can’t come back.” Martin said again. 

Jon’s jaw was pale with strain. 

“You can’t come back.” Martin murmured, an apology. 

He looked at Atlas’s Casket with longing and resignation.

“But I can.”


	16. the thread between sacrifice and salvation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin ventures into the Buried.
> 
> CWs this chapter: minor self harm (no blood), cruelty, sadism, body horror, eco horror, asphyxiation, being buried alive, getting high (sort of), self deprecation, our organic, homegrown canon typical worms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello sweet beans! I hope you are well and safe and having nice times on this weird little orb we're on. As always, thank you for reading, I appreciate you big time. It always makes my day to see your feedback and reactions to my tomfoolery. 
> 
> This was a ruff but oddly satisfying chapter to write?? Also, just remember that our beloveds are all fear creatures and thus,, monsters be acting like monsters.

“Are you sure about this Martin?” Sasha asked. Her face was drawn with worry.

“Yes, I don’t—I don’t want you to risk yourself because of some sense of obligation.” Jon murmured distractedly, chewing at the tips of his claws, eyes never leaving Atlas’s Casket.

Tim rested a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “A word?”

Eyes trailed them as they entered the hallway.

“Yes?” Martin asked. He had no idea what Tim could have to say that couldn’t be said in front of everyone else.

Tim laid both hands on his shoulders. “You really don’t have to do this, you know. Jon is being selfish and you’re being reckless with the self sacrifice.”

Martin shook his head as if he could shake off Tim’s concern. “I promised him, Tim. I said I’d do anything I could.”

“That was different. That was when we thought Daisy was dead. It’s a whole other animal to walk into an eldritch dimension that people do not come back out of. You say you’re safe there—which I’m not convinced is the whole truth, by the way—but what makes you think the Buried is going to let you abscond with one of its victims?”

Martin made a disapproving sound. He preferred the term “offerings.” “Look, I’m—it does my heart good that you actually care, really, but just trust me, Tim. I have a plan.”

The other man looked at him skeptically. “A plan you’re not going to share with the class.”

A small smile ticked up at the corner of Martin’s mouth. “Trade secret. You know how it is.” It was true that as Archivists of brushes with the Entities, they helped compile dossiers on the functions of each Entity and avatar. But they were all well aware there were things they would never share about their gods, and things they would spill blood to keep secret. 

“I do.” Tim huffed a belabored sigh. “Alright. S’long as you’re sure. I hate it, but. You’re grown and I respect the hell out of you.” He paused. “Jon doesn’t deserve you. Hell. No one does.”

A sharp flush assaulted Martin’s cheeks. His heart did the thing it always did when some praised him—fell out of his rib cage with the weighted sense of how unworthy he felt and then launched itself into outer space with how Seen he felt. He was doing his damnedest to believe he deserved good things and one of those was to love himself deeply and irrevocably. “Thanks, Tim. Like really—thanks.”

Tim clapped him on the back. “Alright, then. Let’s rip the plaster off and get you back safe.” 

They all looked on in various levels of apprehension as Martin approached the Coffin. He ran his fingertips down its worn, polished surface, sighing in fear and contentment. When he turned round, Jon was practically buzzing with how wired he was and Basira was digging crescent moons into the flesh of her palms. 

“What needs to happen is you all go into another room. Preferably as far away as possible, the more distance there is between you and the Casket, the less of a draw it has on you. For me, it’s more like a lighthouse, but for all of you, it’s like a moth to the surface of the Sun. You’ll think it’s your idea at first, curiosity, or confidence in your ability to resist. You can’t. No one can. The longer the exposure, the stronger the compulsion, and you _will_ take the stairs. All your avatarhood means is it might take you longer to give in.” Martin said, somber. “Time works differently in there. It may be hours to you and days to me. It may be exactly the same. It’s not measurable and it has an impossible flux and flow to it.” He glanced at Jon. “If—when—I return with Daisy, Jon will be able to sense it through their Hunt bond. Do not come back until you feel it. If a day’s passed, well…rechain the Casket and send it on to Gerry to deal with.”

“I don’t like this.” Sasha said, her true body breaking through her glamour in her distress, skin like technicolour glitches in places, an aura of static. “This isn’t a fun game. This is one you might not come back from.” 

“Don’t worry about me.” Martin felt like he’d said it so many times, he was trapped in a time loop. “I’ll make it out one way or another. But if I can’t get Daisy back within a day, your time, I probably can’t get her back at all.” He shrugged. “It Is Too Close I Cannot Breathe is very possessive. Whatever comes into the earth is its and its alone.”

“Georgie and Oliver might disagree with that.” Melanie said.

“Mm. Once they’re in the ground, they’re of no use to the End. They’re ours.” Martin replied with his own twinge of possessiveness. He turned back to the casket. “You should get going. I’m giving you a head start before I unlock it.” He paused. “Oh.”

“What?” Jon asked, apprehensive. 

Martin broke out into grin that seemed, like sunflowers, charged by immeasurable light. “Make sure you notify Ingrid so she can send out a memo to avoid Containment until further notice. But wait until what’s done is done and what’s spilled is spilled. She’ll be furious.”

They all dwindled out of the room reluctantly, one by one, until only Basira and Jon were left. 

“Thank you.” Basira said simply. “I know what you are giving us.” She turned on her heel. By Basira standards, she was practically weeping. 

Jon shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I. Um.” He cleared his throat, starting again. “I realise that I’ve been—unfair, to you. Been a literal beast about much of everything, especially since—since the memorial.” 

The old Martin would have waved him off, said “don’t feel bad, I’ve already forgotten” or “it’s alright, you were in unfathomable pain.” But he didn’t, because he’d never forget, and it wasn’t alright, despite Jon’s unfathomable pain. “Thank you.” He said instead. 

Jon cleared his throat again. “Well. I best leave you to it.” He got as far as the threshold before he paused, not quite looking back, but chin tilted in Martin’s direction as he spoke to the ground. “Just—come back. No matter how things play out. Come back.” 

And then he was gone and he was alone with the insidious, soothing company of the Coffin.

He grazed his hand over the lock and it fell to the floor with a clunk, chains unwinding of their own accord, slipping off like a dress and pooling on the ground. The lid opened as if with beckoning arms, opening on to the staircase that wound deeper and deeper and impossibly deeper still, not ending so much as beginning the realm of eternal crushing, where so many were suspended in perpetual suffocation, lightheaded but never passing out, choking on dirt but never granted the merciful release of asphyxiation. 

It felt like home.

The further down he went, the closer the walls became, the lower the ceilings of dirt, until he was only spared crawling on hands and knees as his flesh ran with funnels of mud, merging into the Buried, clay to clay. He felt the terrifying affection of his patron, the sludge that filled his lungs, the roots that called him endearments, drew him further in. Oh, he was so, so at peace. So, so afraid.

As opposed to caves and elevators and rooms that were smaller on the inside than the outside, this incarnation of the Buried was the closest to his heart and terror. He had always been afraid, after his mother died, that he would die alone and un-mourned, fed to the unfeeling earth, held in its cold embrace. Now, he grieved that he couldn’t stay here in its arms that were heavy and smothering and alive.

He knew where Daisy was immediately. He could read the dirt, feel her heartbeat so far away and yet so easy to reach, pulsing through the Buried with an excruciating quickness. The parts of him that were solely Martin, simply Martin, felt a bit guilty about how much he enjoyed her horror. The other parts, the parts with seeds in his stomach and gravel in his lungs, were reveling.

Martin reminded himself as often as he could that he was on a rescue mission, that he shouldn’t get lost in the ecstasy of being so close to his patron. He kept his fingers dug knuckle-deep into his forearm as he chanted “get Daisy, get out, get Daisy, get out” for clarity. There was power in words and pain. But of course, retrieving Daisy was not nearly as easy as that. He had to offer the Buried something to fill the void of her decadent anguish.

So he traveled in the opposite direction of where she was moored, blinded by and entrenched in muck. He followed the roots to a space where the Buried yawned into a small cavern with a natural arch of entwined roots that looked like bone in the pitch black he saw through. The arch led to everywhere and also nowhere, and you could only get there if you spoke the language of the underground. Martin told it exactly where he needed to go and it obliged. He stepped into the alcove in the tunnels that was his alone. 

“Hello, Jane.” He said merrily. 

She did not greet him in return, but he excused her poor manners as there was a tremendous mass of roots spiraling out of her mouth and tethering her to the hard-packed earth. Her back was broken, body contorted at an impossible angle, twisting away from herself. Ferns poked out of her empty eye socket and flowers filled some of the holes left by the Hive she hosted. She was slowly, terribly slowly, being consumed by, ah—Martin chuckled—an _invasive species_. He drew closer, maintaining eye contact with her as he stepped on the worms that had fled her ruined flesh, squelching them one by one by one. 

Martin tilted his head. “They seem to be falling out of love with you.” As soon as the last one abandoned her, she would be nothing but a corpse, no longer sustained by the supernatural parasites. “Maybe, in the end, you were never meant to be beloved.”

Jane Prentiss was not one to cry nor attempt to scream through the roots gradually engulfing her, pushing out her teeth and bending back in on themselves to knit her closer into the ground. She was not one to try to free herself, at least not after the first couple of weeks. All she could manage was to suffer in prolonged silence, praying for her worms to eat her before the earth could, to be consumed thoroughly, body and soul, by the creatures that cared for her so very, very much. So much they couldn’t bear to be apart from her. So much they wanted to be so close, closer still, bound deeper than marrow. 

“It’s been cathartic seeing you waste away into the earth you so cherish and despise.” Martin said. “But I’m afraid you have a higher purpose now.” He dug his hands into the earth, entreating it to release the dilapidated woman. She collapsed, harsh noises clawing their way up her throat. She clearly wanted to scream, but her throat was raw and torn. Martin hoisted her up, holding her in his arms like a forsaken bride, and rejoined the Buried.

The Buried had been content to let Martin handle she who had ravaged his plants, she who had dared seek to corrupt its favoured, inch by inch eating her alive. Now Martin offered her fully to it, beseeching the release of Daisy Tonner, a life for a life. The Buried would much rather covet both of them in its domain, but Martin was favoured and thus it was lenient. And they all came back to it in the end. Now Jane, relinquished to an even greater prison, would be eaten alive forever, no matter her worms. She would be fossilized in her abandonment for all time. This pleased the Buried immensely, and Martin just as much.

“Good-bye cousin.” Martin said as Jane was dragged into the depths, where she would lose the beauty of the flowers he’d blessed her with, where her nearly-severed tongue would be coated with silt and salt, her orifices clogged with sleek, unforgiving mud. 

At last, Martin found Daisy. 

“Martin?” She croaked in the tight space in which she could breathe, for the moment. “Is that—how are you here? Are you real? Am _I_ real.”

Martin took her hand, making soothing noises as he worked her slowly out of the mire. “I’m here. You’re safe, now. You’re realer than you’ve ever been.” He swore as he tucked her against him.

She whimpered, recoiling. “I can’t—I just—it’s too close. Everything’s been so terribly close.”

Martin flushed, embarrassed by his carelessness. “Can you suffer my hand?”

“That’s fine.” She said, interlocking their fingers. “I want to feel—I need to know you’re here and I’m real and we’re leaving.” Her jaw dropped then, as she shook with anxiety. It sent a pang through him to see the fierce child of the Hunt reduced to quivering. “We are—we _are_ leaving, right? Oh god, please. Please, Martin.”

“Shh, shh. We’re leaving, I promise.” He stroked the back of her hand, making comforting circles with his thumb. 

“How will we get there? Get back.” She whispered.

“I know the way.” He said. He knew how to get anywhere via the Buried. He knew every inch of the realm as much as it knew him down to his every cell.

Despite her claustrophobia regarding Martin and the pressing tunnels, Daisy slowly tucked herself closer and closer to his side, fingernails digging in whenever they got to a part she was sure they wouldn’t surpass or survive. But Martin circumnavigated every part of It Is Too Close I Cannot Breathe that would not allow Daisy safe passage as it did him. He had to travel much slower with a companion as he couldn’t blend into the Buried and move through the earth as earth himself. But finally, finally, they reached the staircase. He spotted her, hand gentle on her back as he guided her up the dank stairwell.

The lid opened for them—well, Martin, really—and they were back in the common room in Containment. Daisy collapsed against Martin, tears tracking through the dirt streaked across her face as she let out heaving sobs. Her eyes were shut tight against the light that must be cruel to her senses after spending so much ceaseless time underground. Martin carded his hand through her short hair—fingers catching in the grime—and tucked her delicately against his tall frame, vigilant for any sign of her discomfort so he could give her space. 

Their friends barreled into the room, Jon at the head of the pack.

“Daisy.” He breathed. 

Basira pushed passed him and Martin passed Daisy into her arms. She didn’t flinch as Daisy got muck all over her nice blouse and the hem of her hijab. 

“You did it.” Jon ripped his gaze from Daisy with visible effort to alight on Martin. “You—Martin?”

“Martin, come in. We need to close the coffin.” Tim instructed.

Martin looked down in a daze, only just registering he was still perched on the threshold, on the first step of the staircase. When he didn’t move, Tim strode over.

“Martin.” Tim’s voice was lovely and deep and so concerned and Martin had no clue as to why.

He could feel the rivulets of mud running from his eyes, his nose, cresting his lips and spilling in a sluggish drip.

He glanced back down the stairwell into the inviting dark. “Now Daisy’s safe, I think I’ll stay.” That was right. That was the rightest thing that had ever been. He felt the lulling pull of his patron, of the promise of being alone in the dark and Buried and not mourned and alive and loved so much.

Several sets of eyes were on him then.

“You can’t do that.” Tim said, trying to stymie the alarm in his voice. 

“Why not?” Martin asked dreamily. “There’s nowhere I’m safer. I belong there.”

“You belong with us.” Sasha said, crackling with the power of the Spiral.

“He’s euphoric.” Jon said, eyes wide. “He won’t come out on his own.”

“I can help with that.” Melanie offered.

There was a pinprick in the joy that murmured through his veins, that wound around his heart like caressing vines. They were going to try to take it away from him, this ecstasy, this perfect peace.

“If you try to do that, you’ll guarantee he goes down that staircase.” Basira murmured. 

“Martin.” Tim said again.

“You say my name so carefully.” Martin wondered, looking at Tim but not quite seeing him. He felt so light up here, too light. He needed to be anchored down in his seat of power. He flinched minutely as Tim took his face in his hands.

“Martin.” Tim kept saying his name like it was a talisman, a tether. “You have to stay. We need you.”

“That’s not true.” His gaze sharpened, just slightly. No one needed him. The only thing that _needed_ him were his plants, and they would be safe with him in the Below.

“And we want you.” Jon added, which sent a jolt through Martin. It didn’t overwhelm the sweet song of his patron, but he could feel it through the gauze.

Tim took one of Martin’s hands in his own. “Come along, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Martin cast one last look down into the promised refuge of the Casket, then allowed himself to be led. Melanie immediately wrapped the coffin in the heavy chains and locked it firmly. The sense of loss was piercing. 

Jon looked between Daisy and Martin and back again, visibly torn. 

“I’m taking Martin to Artefact Storage to use the emergency shower.” Tim declared. He set his gaze on Jon directly, then, as he offered a reprieve. “Catch up with us when Daisy’s sorted.”

Martin stood placidly as the hot water scoured him. He hugged himself as the connection to his patron waned, spun down the drain and out of reach. When he was through, Tim offered him a towel and a fresh jumper. 

“It’s so bright.” Martin whispered. “Too bright.”

Tim nodded. He turned out the lights and drew Martin to Gerry’s cosy armchair behind his desk. He sank into the carpet, propped up against the side of the chair. He guided Martin to rest his head in his lap. 

Martin fell asleep to Tim gently running his hand through his wet curls as Martin grew flowers around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this household we adore tender, platonic relationships between men. <3
> 
> Also, once again featuring: Jon poking at the concept of Emotions with a Stick.


	17. equilibrium and other tricks of the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daisy and Martin recover from their time in the Buried and a revelation is made.
> 
> CWs this chapter: mention of scarring, mentions of past cruelty, mentions of bloodshed and maiming, mild body horror, mention of death, transformation, mild gore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello once again! Hope you are going into a rad weekend. As always, thank you for reading. Your support, enjoyment, and feedback give me +1 serotonin on the daily. 
> 
> I cannot tell you how long I have been waiting to write several scenes in this chapter the debt is paid my soul is light!! Haha there is still m u c h to come. I put this off for so many chapters because I wanted everything to unfold naturally. But ahhh. We're bout to have some Nice Things. ((and more terrible, because this is horror.)) But NICE THINGS. <3

Jon and Basira helped Daisy to the infirmary. She was in a bad way, shaking so hard she was unable to walk on her own. She kept casting her gaze between the walls and the ceiling as if expecting them to come down at any moment. He had a dreadful feeling she’d been living through something quite like that all these weeks.

“Are you good to sit down?” At her nod, he helped her onto one of the cots. He had so many questions chewing at his tongue, but he wasn’t sure how much of that was him and how much of that was the damned Beholding so he swallowed them down. Besides, it would be cruel to ask her to recount her harrowing experience while she was only just this side of it. What was important was that she was there. Safe. Kin. He held her hand while Basira retrieved a first aid kit.

Daisy flinched as Basira set about wiping away the mud and scrubbing the dirt ingrained in her skin. Her fingers tightened around Jon’s in a death grip. “Where’s Martin?” She asked. He had never heard her sound so small. Funny, that something so innocuous scared him so much.

“He’s with Tim. Getting cleaned up.” 

“When will he be back?”

Jon frowned. “I don’t know. I imagine when he’s all taken care of, hopefully he’ll rest. Is there something wrong?”

“No, not really. I’d just like it if he were here.”

Jon scolded himself for bristling a bit internally. What comfort could _Martin_ offer that he couldn’t? “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind visiting when he can.” She nodded minutely. 

Basira ran her hands over Daisy, applying varying levels of pressure. When she reached her torso, Daisy gasped. “Cracked rib, likely.” Basira said. “Not qualified for that. I’ll page Hopworth.”

Jared Hopworth was their resident medic. He had a rather sordid past as an avatar of the Flesh—he quite thoroughly earned the nickname “The Bone Turner”—but he was indispensable for the Institute, mostly for patching Containment up after missions gone south. He didn’t have any sort of credentials, a cursory medical knowledge at best, but muscles and bones and flesh spoke to him in a way that made it rather beside the point in most cases.

While they waited, Jon encouraged her to drink water. She resisted at first but after the first swallow he had to slow her down. 

“’Ullo.” Jared said as he entered. “Heard your ribs took a nasty turn, Daisy. Buried, was it?” He retrieved some instruments from one of the cabinets. “I’m a bit jealous, really. I bet you can grow some incredible things down there. I’m a gardener, myself.” 

“I don’t think she was in a position to enjoy the scenery.” Jon said dryly.

Jared paused, head tilted. “I imagine not. More’s the pity.” He proceeded to take Daisy’s vitals and run a hand along her abdomen. He hummed, satisfied. “Quite a nasty turn, indeed. Three cracked ribs and you’re lucky for it, all things considered. Would you like some painkillers?”

Daisy shook her head, biting her lip. That was more like the Daisy he knew, for better or worse. 

“Suit yourself.” He dug his hand into her torso with no preamble and she cried out as he got to work, rearranging her ribcage and willing it to mend. Her nails dug into Jon’s flesh so hard it broke skin and by the time Hopworth was done, Daisy was sweating and paler than the moon. “Bit of shock.” He shrugged. “She’ll be fine once her system adjusts. For now she should just rest, take it easy for a few days. She’ll do better in her hound form.” 

With that, he was gone. Jon could almost swear he had pocketed something that looked just the shade of bone. 

“I agree with Hopworth.” Basira said. “I’ll keep checking on you. I’ll go notify your pack. I’m sure they’ll want to come keep watch.” While Jon was Daisy’s pack in spirit, she was part of a literal pack of hounds of the Hunt. The local pack lived not too far from the Institute. Having any of them here to protect her while she was injured would be a relief and simple proximity would speed her recovery. 

“Missed you like you couldn’t know.” Basira lay a meaningful hand on Daisy’s shoulder then left.

Daisy groaned, leaning forward to press her forehead into Jon’s chest.

“I thought of you every day. Almost every minute.” He said suddenly. Now that she was here, that he could touch her, know she was real, the dam broke and his grief and gratitude were drowning. 

Daisy squeezed his hand.

“I didn’t know I could feel this much.” He admitted.

She snorted weakly. “You are an emotionally repressed strawberry cream puff and it’s apparent to everyone but you, Jonathan.” 

Jon bared his teeth in a heatless snarl. “I am _not_.”

Daisy just huffed. 

“We had a memorial for you, you know.” He said mildly, ardently trying not to let his heart bleed into his voice. “That night we had a proper Hunt, your pack and I.” If he closed his eyes he could conjure the scrape of pine needles against his flesh and the cacophony of scents in the woods. 

“Would I have liked it? The memorial?”

“You would have been…bemused.” Jon smiled wryly. “I’ll show you your gravestone sometime. It’s got a daisy on it.”

“ _No_. It does _not_.” Daisy said, horrified. 

Jon couldn’t suppress a laugh that vibrated throughout his body. “Oh yes it does. Elias picked it out. I was quick enough to prevent him from having some sappy, toothless quote engraved on it, you’re welcome.”

Daisy shook her head against his chest. “The disrespect.”

“Everyone pricked their fingers and left flowers for you.” He offered. It was the softest of Hunt practices, that happened after copious amounts of bloodshed in their fallen avatar’s honour. 

She peeked up at him. “That does not absolve Elias of his sins, but I’ll take it.” She sighed, sitting up, wincing as she went. “It was so horrible Jon.” She admitted in a murmur. “I wished I was dead.”

Jon bent to kiss her forehead, but she flinched, so he drew back. He wasn’t sure what would psychologically press on her wounds, so he gave her extra room. “If I could find a way to rip the throat out of the Buried itself, I would.”

Her lips ticked up in the barest hint of a smile. “Then we’d have a war on our hands.”

“Worth it.” He would face down any monster, beast, Fear itself for her.

“Then we wouldn’t have Martin.” 

He flexed his jaw. The sentiment gave him a witch’s brew of feelings, dangerous and unknowable. 

“I’m going to shift.” She declared. “You should go check on Martin.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I’ll still be here. Promise.” When she looked at him, he knew she knew the chattering fear crawling up his throat, making it feel like he couldn’t breathe. The fear that if he let her out of his sight, she’d be gone for good this time, like a reverse Orpheus. 

He nodded brusquely. “Alright.”

Her transformation was not what a human would consider beautiful. It was a shifting of bone and blood and everything that makes a person a person into a creature made of countless glowing eyes and a row of mouths down the front, each filled with teeth that craved the taste of sinew and were more than adept at getting what they wanted. 

She was radiant.

Daisy curled up on herself, shadowy haunches wisping away as if smoke. He lay a light hand on her fur, the colour of dried blood and soft as sin. 

She was asleep by the time he left the room.

He found Sasha in the Archival offices, typing away with fervor.

“Is Martin--?”

“With Tim, in Artefact Storage.” She tilted her head toward the winding staircase across the room. 

“Is he—”

Sasha stopped typing abruptly to look at Jon. “He’s not at top form. But he’s fine, Jon. He’ll bounce back.” 

“Ah—yes, good.” He said dumbly. He didn’t know what else to say. There wasn’t much of a script for when the coworker you formerly loathed and had been especially an arse to over the last month goes and walks into a fear dimension to rescue your best friend. If there was a card for it, he would have gotten it, tacked his name on, and be done with it, but unfortunately Hallmark hadn’t gotten round to that in the special occasion section.

Sasha sighed. “Go see him. Make him tea. Don’t worry about work. I’ve already gotten Tim’s done for the day and I’m working on Martin’s for the next couple of days. I’ll record a couple of statements on your behalf. Just take a beat, Jon.” 

“Sasha that’s not—”

“I don’t care if you want it, Jon. You need it. Let me do this.” Her fingers collapsed onto the keyboard. He saw the deep weariness in her and he bit his tongue, doing his best to honour her and stuff down his objections. “This is the thing I can do.” She continued. “This is the thing I’m good at.”

She was right, of course. He was well aware of Sasha’s exploits on the clock, the sordid escapades with Michael and whatever else that entertained her. He never got on her about it because she always got her work done and excellently at that. If she sacrificed a day of ill-spirited shenanigans, she could absolutely cover the workload of the whole office.

“Thank you.”

She laughed. “You sound as if you said that with a stomach full of arsenic. Maybe you should practice in a mirror.” She tilted her head. “You can do that right?”

“Sasha.” He snapped. “You know very well I have a reflection.” 

“I know _I_ can see it, but I didn’t know if _you_ could see it.”

“What possible evolutionary reason would there be for me not to see my own reflection but everyone else can?” 

“My amusement.” There was that smile that was too big for her face, partly curling up her cheeks.

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling heavily through his nose, then he turned on his heel and went to make Martin what would certainly be a subpar cuppa.

When he made it down to Storage, he found Gerry tinkering at his desk, flipping over an hourglass that seemed to be filled with blood, while Tim leaned against the side of his chair, Martin cradled in his lap. There was a whole flowerbed around them, loose soil with blooms coiling down into the carpet. They sat softly in Martin’s hair and strewn down Tim’s long legs. It did an unpleasant thing to his heart that he tucked away into the far reaches of his mind. 

“Oh thank god.” Tim said as Jon approached. “My back is about to give out. I am not the spry youth I once was.” He didn’t mind his volume but Martin did not stir.

Jon raised a brow. “I am not inheriting your dumb choice to sit on the floor.”

“Sure, fine. You take the man, I’ll take the tea.”

“Fine.” Jon sat the tea on the edge of Gerry’s desk and bent to scoop up Martin, which instantly rewarded him with loam ground into his palms and petals crushed underfoot, which made him feel bad but was rather unavoidable. 

“Hey, Gerry, thanks for letting us crash on your carpet. Sorry about the uh, garden.” Tim said.

Gerry glanced up distractedly. “I like them. I’ll keep them.” 

Jon half suspected that meant he would leave them exactly as they were until rot set in and then he’d probably take several weeks to do anything about that. He turned back to his work, which apparently meant smashing an hourglass that was, in fact, filled with blood, on his desk. Whatever that blood came from must have been something truly _vile_ because the mere smell of it turned Jon’s stomach. 

“Ok bye, Gerry.” Jon said, practically running up the stairs. 

Tim brought the tea into the spare room Jon slept in, leaving it on the makeshift bedside table. Jon deposited Martin gently on the top covers. Resting there covered in petals and coiled with vines, he looked like some fairytale prince of the forest. Jon ducked his head at the absurd thought.

“I’m going to go take a walk about. Take a little dip in the Vast.” Tim said. “You going to be fine on your own?”

“I’m not a child, Timothy.” Jon scowled.

Tim pressed a hand to his heart. “Of course not. It’s my boy I’m worried about.”

“I’ll stay with him.” Jon promised.

Tim tossed up an ‘OK’ symbol, satisfied, then left the room. 

The tea had only grown lukewarm by the time Martin woke up. He sat up blearily, not surprised to be covered in plant matter. He absorbed the vines and left the flowers. Since he’d returned from the Buried, his hair had been primarily adorned with moss and night-blooming flowers. The man found a way to make squishy forest refuse endearing. 

“Jon?” He asked, stretching and hugging his knees to his chest. Jon sat at the end of the cot.

“Yes, Martin?” There was a curiously powerful relief at seeing Martin conscious and seemingly alright.

“How’s Daisy?”

Jon chuckled. 

“What?” Martin narrowed his eyes, and the stern look only made Jon laugh fully. 

“Trust you to ask after someone else after you’ve been through an ordeal.”

“Daisy’s the one who was stuck there suffering. It was practically a visit to Wonderland for me.” Martin said defensively.

“You’re so good, Martin. How are you so good?” Jon felt just as shocked as Martin looked. “She’s fine. Sleeping. Healing.” He paused. “She was asking after you. I think she wanted you with her.” _For some reason_ , he added mentally. 

“Oh. Oh, I should go see her then.” He started to rise and Jon put a staying hand in the centre of his chest. Martin stared down at it.

“No rush. She’s fast asleep and her pack is on its way to be with her. You being there right now would just put them on edge.”

“Oh.” Martin sank back. “That’s a good point. Won’t be much use to Daisy if I’m in little pieces on the floor.”

Jon grimaced. “Lovely image.” 

“You’re a predator, Jon.” 

“Okay, genuinely lovely if it wasn’t you.” He amended. He frowned. “She just wants your company, I think. And you don’t need to be useful to justify your presence, Martin. Why are you looking at me like that?” He was gaping, and it reminded Jon of a goldfish he’d had as a child—Sir Hamburglar the IV—and he wanted it to stop immediately what could he say to make it stop. 

“That’s the nicest offhand thing you’ve ever said to me. I can say that definitively.”

“Oh. Well.” Jon blushed which was quite a feat as a vampire. “That’s a rather low bar, I must up my game posthaste.” He took a deep, steadying breath.   
“Beginning with—I’m so sorry for how I’ve treated you these last several weeks.” He swallowed. “What I said to you at the memorial. And I can’t—I don’t have the words for—thank you, for Daisy—I don’t—but I want to try—”

Martin laughed and it was so warm and heartfelt that Jon was struck silent. “Well don’t break yourself. You really should keep notecards on you, Jon. You can pull them out for emotional situations as needed.”

Jon’s face was now burning. He usually loathed it when people commented on his emotional intelligence, or rather, lack thereof, but he found it was getting harder and harder to loathe anything about Martin, and harder to pinpoint why he ever had. 

“I made you tea.” He said abruptly, pointing at the mug.

“Oh. Ah, thank you.” He picked up the mug, holding it between his hands like it was something precious. Jon anxiously watched him take the first sip, and internally released a held breath when he appeared to find it adequate. “That’s rather good, Jon. Quite strong.”

And there went his relief. “Is it too strong? I can go get some sugar. Milk. Honey?”

Martin smiled gently. “I like it strong. Pairs better with sweets. Equilibrium, you know.”

“That—makes sense.”

Martin hummed. “Well. I guess we better get back to work, huh? I don’t think Elias will appreciate us slacking off due to me taking an unauthorized trip to the Buried.” 

“Elias can stow it.” Jon said firmly. 

“ _Jon_.” Martin looked around, scandalized, but visibly delighted. “I don’t know how but he can probably hear you.”

“Well, if he joins us I will be happy to cordially say it to his face.” Jon smiled. “Besides, Sasha has taken on our workload for the day. Says we’ve been through quite enough.”

“My hero.” He said fondly. Jon found that maybe, after all, he wished his teammates could talk about him with such endearment. 

_We care about you._

_I didn’t ask you to._

_You didn’t need to._

Sasha’s words at the memorial came back in a rush of shame and hope.

“Well, what are you going to do with your day off?” Martin asked, reeling Jon back into the present.

“Hadn’t thought about it. But I’ll likely hang around here. Maybe sleep in the infirmary. The pack won’t mind me there, we’re kin.” 

Martin nodded. “A slumber party sounds nice.”

“Would you—maybe you could stay, too?” 

“Me?”

“For Daisy.” Jon rushed. “Since she’s been asking after you. If it’s not too much of an ask, you’ve done so much already. Given her—given us everything.”

“A slumber party sounds nice.” Martin repeated. He paused. “You promise not to let the hounds eat me?”

“I suppose.” Jon teased. 

The hounds actually left as night stole over the Institute. They were off to hunt and return the next day to watch over Daisy and bring her back the share she could not hunt for herself. Daisy was still sleeping off Hopworth’s “operation,” so it was just him and Martin up. Jon had drawn a cot parallel to Daisy’s but giving her ample space to accommodate whatever residual claustrophobia she was dealing with. Martin would be sleeping catty-corner to them. 

They had migrated to sitting side by side on Martin’s cot, talking about all sorts of relatively trivial things—books, movies, current events—and gradually started delving deeper, Martin talking about his poetry, Jon about the documentary he had been a part of, Martin about what he remembered about his father, Jon about his grandmother’s terrible affinity for doilies. Once they hit on his band from uni, he realised he was having a good time. Not simply passable, he was honestly invested in the conversation. He regretted that he could have been having it years ago, if he hadn’t been dedicated to being a world class prick. 

Of course, as was tradition, he had to ruin it.

“You and Tim are closer than I realized.” He had absolutely no idea what possessed him to say it. It wasn’t even marginally tangential to what they’d been talking about. He immediately wanted to reel back in the words, like a magician’s scarf trick in reverse. 

“Oh yeah.” Martin said, unphased. “Tim’s great. Always quick to find the silver lining in things. Always ready to have a good time and if there’s no good time he’s determined to make one.”

“During the Prentiss attack—in Artefact Storage. And then, uh, when you came back from the Buried.” Jon realized he was talking ahead of himself, making no sense. All he could think about was Tim’s lips pressed into Martin’s forehead, his hands holding his face like it was the most precious thing on earth. “I didn’t realize—you’re dating, right?” He almost choked on the question. “I’m sorry, that’s extremely unprofessional. Please pretend I didn’t ask.”

Martin just laughed good-naturedly. “Me and Tim? He’s one of my best mates, for sure. But it’s not like that. Not that he’s not open to the idea.” Martin rolled his eyes. “But he’s open to being with pretty much anyone. He’s gorgeous, and kind, and way too charming for either his good or the general population’s, but. Not in the cards.” 

“Ah. You don’t like men.” What other reason could there possibly be?

“Hah. No that is—that’s definitely not it.” Martin raked a hand through his hair. 

“Someone else, then?”

“Not….not really, no.” Why was Martin being so shifty all of a sudden? “What about you?”

“Me?” Jon was genuinely taken aback. “No, not at the moment. Haven’t had much interest in it, lately.”

“I see.” Was it—yes, it had to be his imagination. Martin almost looked relieved. What a mundane trick of the light. He was truly something to behold—ha—just sitting there in the dim light, doing nothing particular, nothing of import, just existing. He was such a soft presence in a sharp world. But there was that other side of the coin as well, the merciless way he protected those he cared for, how he didn’t hesitate to throw himself into the ring as need be. A man as much the thorn as the rose, and all of it beautiful. 

“Martin—” What was he going to say? What other ill-advised, mortifying inquiry? Why was he always balanced on a knife when he talked to other people?

“Yes, Jon?” The taller man sat up from where he’d been hunched over his knees, arms lax. He looked down at him with an open, patient expression.

In that moment, all Jon could think about was the gentle slope of his cheeks, the impossibly endearing cupid’s bow, the bronze freckles strewn like stars over his nose, the marigolds laced through his curls—

Jon took Martin’s face in his battered hands, worm scars and the ridged flesh of healed burns and all—and pulled him down to his level. His mind was a blank, there was light, nothing but light.

He pressed his lips against Martin’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	18. this is just real gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon and Martin actually talk and feel things, at the same time, miraculously.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not ace,, I have recently learned the distinction between sex-repulsed, sex-averse, and sex-favourable, and I'm operating off of talking from my ace pals. 
> 
> CWs this chapter: slightly spicy, maybe secondhand embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello beautiful spring flowers! I hope you are well and rested and having a good go of it! As always, thank you for reading, you have been incredibly zesty and kind. 
> 
> This chapter was v challenging for me. I have written spicier content, but this is the spiciest I have offered to the public. Also they have so many feelings my god. Welcome to years' worth of not processing a gotdang thing that flitters thru your heart, Jonathan.

Martin pulled back and Jon’s heart withered in his chest as panic set in.

“Oh. Oh no.” Jon said. He might actually be malfunctioning. “That was a mistake, wasn’t it? Of course it was, I don’t know why I thought—that was rash.”

Martin pressed his fingertips to his lips. 

Martin was so close and every nerve in his pitiful body was screaming. It was a matter of fight or flight and Jon was very close to running out the door, faking his death, and moving to a different hemisphere to live a life of shame and animal husbandry. He was partial to cows.

“Jon—you loathe me.” Martin said, hand still pressed to his lips. 

Jon froze. Of course he would think that. What reason had he ever given for Martin to think otherwise? 

“You loathe me and you just finished telling me how you aren’t even looking for a relationship right now.” Martin paused, then his jaw fell open. “Is this a—are you wanting a _hate shag_?” He whispered, glancing toward Daisy.

“Christ!” Jon flinched. His cheeks were flaming, which he hadn’t even known was possible. “No. I don’t—I admit I was not favourable in the past.”

“Jon. I’m pretty sure you made a case to Elias and HR for Ingrid to eat me.”

“Look, it was time for her quarterly bonus and I was in a particularly foul mood—”

“Case in point—”

“ _People change_.” 

“What could have possibly changed that much? Enough that you’re suddenly snogging me?”

“Well, um. I’ve seen a—a different side of you recently, with the worms and Prentiss and then the—incident, you could have rightly left me to my well-deserved fate instead of covering for me—”

“Let me get this straight—you’ve held vague distaste for me since you became aware of my existence, which evolved into concentrated vitriol—and now you like me because, what, I tried to kill you once and then kicked your arse and hid a—helped you out?” 

“Okay you only had the upper hand because I was ill—” He held the bridge of his nose. “Anyways, yes, those were a factor and I won’t even lie that it wasn’t a bit about—about seeing what you’re capable of—but then Daisy, it all made me realize all of that kindness is, it’s authentic, which, I don’t think most people deserve, by the way, least of all me—”

Martin rolled his eyes, leaned down, tilted Jon’s chin up, and kissed him slow and deep and impossibly softly, which had Jon gasping. It was all so much and so quick and so _good_ , he wasn’t used to being allowed good things—

“Thank you for the Shakespearean monologue. You’re an ornery brat, rude, bordering on insufferable, but you’re a fool to think that’s all you are. You would quite literally kill to protect those you care about, when you’re invested in something, you give your body and soul to it—and you’re actually quite adorable.”

“I am _not_.” Now Jon knew Martin was just pulling compliments out of a hat.

“You don’t get a vote, actually, since you don’t see yourself.”

“I am the _most_ qualified.”

“Jon, I don’t want your CV.”

He huffed. “Very well.” 

Martin hesitated before pressing a kiss into his forehead. “I get to decide who I give my affections, understood? Are you satisfied?”

Jon bit his lip to keep from saying something daft like ‘this is the first time I’ve ever felt satisfied.’ He took a deep breath. “That is…sufficient, yes.” 

“Oh, good.” Martin gave zero warning before capturing his lips again.

Jon hadn’t felt a gravitation to another person in a long time. Most of the time that was more than fine. He genuinely enjoyed his own company and Georgie and Daisy were all he needed as far as intimacy went. But this thing—this strange evolution between him and Martin of all people—it was like a match lit in his ribcage, illuminating spaces inside himself he never knew he had. Jon kissed the other man’s eyelids, his forehead, nose, jaw, everywhere everywhere, softness in abundance for all the years he'd withheld it.

“Jon.” Martin laughed against his lips. 

Jon moved down his neck, then nipped his collarbone, hard. Martin bucked involuntarily against him.

“Jon.” He said weakly. Jon smirked against his collarbone even as his heart beat faster. He couldn’t pinpoint a time when anyone had said his name so reverently. He wanted to hear it again and again. 

Jon carded a hand through Martin’s curls—they were even softer than he’d suspected—careful to not disturb his flowers. “Just so you know—I’m asexual. Sex-favourable, so I enjoy sex, but. I’ll never initiate it and sometimes I won’t be interested in it at all.” He’d long since accepted this core fact of himself. If Martin couldn’t accept it, then, well—he wouldn’t be the first and Jon would survive. He was a strong, independent vampire dammit. 

Martin pulled back, removing his hands from Jon’s waist, a weight that he missed immediately. “Are you interested right now?” 

Jon blushed high in his cheeks. “Very much so.”

Martin nodded. “Alright. Now is now and then is then and all of it is good.” 

“ _Oh_.” Jon was struck by the instantaneous steadiness of Martin’s response. “Unrelated, but, I’m quite possessive you know. I know that’s not a—a trait ideal in a partnership.”

It was Martin’s turn to blush a beautiful shade of rose that leveled the playing field. 

“Oh. Huh. Words I never thought I’d hear.” Martin shook his head. “And no matter. You’ll find I can match that energy easily.”

“Oh?”

Martin bit him, teeth deep enough in the skin of his neck that Jon knew it would bruise. He jerked in surprise, then shivered in something else altogether. He pressed a hand into Martin’s side, urging him closer. 

“Mine now.” Martin said simply, drawing back and pressing a kiss into the wound.

“Yours.” Jon agreed breathlessly. He felt dizzy with how much it all was, tempting and terrifying in equal measure. 

“You good?” Martin asked. “You look as if you could use a fainting couch.”

“Shut up.” Jon mumbled, dissolving into Martin’s shoulder. “It’s just—it’s a bit overwhelming, is all. To go from zero to a hundred.”

“Less than zero to a hundred.” Martin said wryly.

Jon mumbled something else into his shoulder which was far less polite.

“I understand.” Martin continued. “It’s a bit much for me, too. I mean, ask me twenty-four hours ago and I would have laughed someone out of the Institute for implying this could be anything but a fantasy.”

At this, Jon pulled back. “Are you saying you’ve _fantasised_ about me, Martin Blackwood?” He wanted to be suave about it but honestly he could not even fathom someone spending a second of their day thinking of— _wanting_ to be in any kind of dream world with him.

Martin rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jon, you are worth one or two daydreams, shut up about it. It’s not like I was _pining_. I wasn’t that daft to think you’d ever return any of my feelings, especially once I actually met you and started working for you.” He paused. “Oh, that’s a little spicy isn’t it? You being my boss.”

“What do you mean once you met me?” Jon furrowed his brows. “Are you saying you noticed me before then? Why would you have any interest in someone you didn’t know?”

“Chrissake Jon are you going to make me spell out everything for you?” He said with fond exasperation. “ _You’re hot._ The petite, angry thing works for you. With your little cardigans and scowls. And the silver streaks in your hair, holy hell.” 

All of these words felt incomprehensible. He didn’t hate his body—in fact, it was one of the most agreeable things about him. Certainly more promising than his personality. “I see.” He said finally. “You have bad taste.”

Martin rolled his eyes. Jon was tempted to tell him that they would get stuck in the back of his skull one day, he was noticing that it was less a habit and more a lifestyle at this point. 

“Again, you do not see yourself you dumb, brilliant man.” Martin sighed. “It really is quite late, though, and I’ll need three business days to process any of this—I’m not convinced I’m not being picked on by the Spiral or something.” 

“I understand the sentiment.”

It took a moment for him to realize why Martin was still staring at him.

He was in the man’s bed. Well, that was generous, but saying ‘cot’ felt rather summer camp-y. He looked over at his own cot, which seemed so much less inviting than it had when they’d come to bunk down.

“You could stay, you know. If you like.” Martin ducked his head. “I understand if it’s too much—I mean there’s not much room and you’re already overwhelmed I’m sorry it was stupid to suggest and I don’t even know what I’m thinking I don’t even know what we’re doing—we kiss now?”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh as Martin stumbled, which caused him to collapse in on himself a bit. “No, no I’m not teasing you.” Jon said quickly. “I’m just—I’m enjoying you.” He realised with a start. “And we uh, yes we kiss now. If you want. But we could be more than that, if you’d like.” It was his turn to become impossibly shy. God, it felt like a dance in fifth form all over again.

“Jonathan Sims. Are you asking me to go _steady_?” 

“I’m--!” He sighed, defeated. “Yes. Martin Blackwood, will you _go steady_ with me.” 

Martin pretended to have a think over it. “Hmm. I suppose.” 

“You are going to be much more of a handful than I anticipated.” Jon muttered. But he couldn’t stay even fondly begrudging—inside he was positively radiating. His life had gone so wayward, he hadn’t dared want for much. And here was so much, that he hadn’t earned and certainly did not deserve, but here was Martin offering it, and he would spend each moment becoming worthy of him.

“Sooo are we being cute and sleeping together on this incredibly narrow cot or are you going to sensibly go over there?” Martin asked, returning to the original point.

“I want to be so very irrational with you.” 

Martin beamed and the pure sunshine of it in the dim room made Jon feel like a schoolgirl. Next he’d be writing _Jonathan Blackwood_ or _Martin Sims_ in his notebooks with hearts for the I’s. Martin moved over as much as he could which was not much at all. They did an odd dance of Tetris before Martin sighed audibly and tucked Jon against his chest. Jon may or may not have let out a squeak but he would Definitely kill anyone who put it on the official record.

“Is this fine?” 

“Yes. Perfectly acceptable.” Jon said, somewhat stilted. 

“You sure because you sound like maybe not.”

Jon exhaled slowly, willing the tension out of his muscles as he sank back into the soft comfort of Martin holding him. “I’m just—it’s been a minute since I’ve slept with someone other than Georgie or Daisy.”

“Oh is this a poly thing? We should probably talk about that. I wish I had the capacity for it but I’m just not good at sharing. And it’s hard enough for me to believe one person wants a committed relationship with me, let alone multiples.”

“No, not like that. Platonic. Like you and Tim.” 

Martin hummed in consideration. “Tim and I have slept together on a stake out or two. Is that going to be a problem?”

Jon stuffed down the dumb, hypocritical vampire instinct to protect the claim he’d lain on Martin. That was rude supernatural nonsense and he would never let it get in the way of supporting Martin doing whatever he damn well pleased. Well, mostly. Hell. “Will you be kissing him like you just kissed me?”

Martin’s hand tightened on Jon’s waist, dragging softly across his stomach to caress the back of his hand idly with his thumb. Jon almost wanted to say it was too much—how could he be expected to not combust with the onslaught of gentleness and contentment? “No, no, that’s all for you.”

“Not a problem, then.” He said quietly, not risking a break in his voice.

“Oh, good. Good night, Jon.”

“Good night, Martin.” 

It didn’t take long for Martin’s breathing to even out. When his hand went lax, Jon knew he was asleep. He glanced at Daisy, who was out like a light, curled up on herself like a little hell hound croissant. 

He couldn’t help but be in soft awe as he dozed off.

His best friend, freshly dug out of a fear dimension kept in a coffin. His former greatest bane, now his greatest balm, pressed reassuringly against his back, holding him steady.

What a strange, strange world. 

He slept more peacefully than he had in ages. 

He woke up with a scythe to his throat.


	19. the hourglass on its side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Daisy is a good girl and Jon and Martin define their relationship. 
> 
> CWs this chapter: mild body horror, deception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello radiant starfish! I hope the beginning to your week has been just swimming. Thank you, as always, for joining me on this ride. 
> 
> This chapter was just, so self indulgent, and I have 0 remorse. TMA is starting up again this week and we will have Nice! Things! to counter what is surely to be Not Nice canon haha.
> 
> That being said, things are never calm long at the Archives in Any universe. ;)

“Make your peace.” The figure leaned into the scythe, the curve of the blade pressing just this side of drawing blood.

Jon growled and pushed against the blade with his bare hands, hissing as it bit in and blood spilled from the wicked crescents in his palms.

“Bloody hell, Jon.” The figure complained as it stepped back. A dark leather-clad hand pushed back its hood, revealing Georgie. “Have you ever calmed down, once, ever, in your life?”

“Georgina.” He snapped. “You are the one brandishing an _actual scythe_.”

“I don’t like it, but point to you.” 

“Why are you even here?” 

“On duty.” She preened, balancing her scythe across her broad shoulders, forearms holding it in place, hands lax. “Oliver and I are consulting on a case. A bad and naughty avatar framed one of our reapers so Containment is outsourcing the bounty to us.” 

Jon’s bleary gaze drifted to the doorway, where Oliver Banks leaned, twin sickles sheathed at his hips, an oddly striking contrast to the immaculate button-down shirt with the silver collar tips and the fine dress shoes. “Hello, Oliver.”

“Hey, Jon.” 

“And that explains why you’re in the infirmary because--?” He prompted, no less cross but quite a bit less anxious. Vampires tended to be a bit sensitive about potential beheading. Now fully awake, he noticed the lack of warmth beside him. He sat up, casting his gaze about.

“Because I love you and wanted to say hi before I go off a’murdering. What are you looking so antsy for?”

Jon’s breathing hitched when he found what he was looking for. At some point Martin had left the cramped quarters of their cot. He was sprawled across two cots pushed together, Daisy tucked against his chest, still in hellhound form, another hellhound curled around his feet in a lethal comma, and Poe—inserting himself in situations as he pleased, as always—was the tiniest spoon, snuggled into Martin’s side. It was quite a scene. 

“Oh, yes, aren’t they adorable?” Georgie gushed. “Don’t worry, I’ve already texted you the pics.”

Jon swung his legs over the cot, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “What time is it.”

“About noon. You slept through the night?”

“Apparently so.”

“Well that’s new and different.”

“Georgie.” Oliver sighed from the doorway.

“Yes, yes, I know. I promised I’d be quick.” She glanced back at Jon. “Think Elias and Basira would let you tag along?”

“Unlikely. They’re very letter of the law about policy and I’m not on as Containment staff. HR would have a fit.” 

“Well, boo. Wish me luck, then.”

“When have you ever needed luck while reaping?” 

“It’s not the reaping.” She lowered her voice. “Melanie’s coming along. I want to look extra cool, not just my regular inherent cool.”

“I mean you’re gorgeous and witty and have a very big scythe, I hear that’s what all the women are into these days.” Jon drawled. “Also Melanie’s a Banshee of the Slaughter, you’re a Reaper of the End, it’s kind of Hallmark from the get-go, isn’t it?”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right. Knew I could count on you for some quality hype. Thanks Sharp-Tooth.” She freed one hand to bend and grip Jon’s face, sharp acrylic nails pinpricking the flesh of his cheek. She deposited a kiss on his forehead, no doubt leaving an imprint of her plum lipstick. “Alright, come along, then, Olly.”

Oliver tossed up a hand in farewell, which naturally rolled into taking Gerry’s hand as he appeared beside him, their identical onyx rings glinting in the cool light of the infirmary. They were an invention of Gerry’s, forged from the unholy tinkering of several artefacts, that allowed him to materialize wherever Oliver was. Quite handy for when you were a dating a spectre trapped in an Artefact acquired by the Institute. 

“Hello love.” Oliver greeted. “Your smokey eye looks sharp enough to kill a man today. I adore it.”

Gerry beamed. He tinkered with the other man’s collar tips. “You’re looking sharp, yourself. Out in the field today, then?” 

Oliver hummed. “Afraid so. I’ll come back later and tell you all about it over takeout, promise.” 

“You better.” Gerry bent to press a kiss into Oliver’s lips, his jeweled braids falling softly against the other man’s cheek. “Bring me back something interesting?”

Oliver nodded. “I always endeavour.” 

“OLLY.” Georgie’s voice reverberated down the hallway. 

Oliver arched a brow sardonically, squeezing the spectre’s hand tightly, and pressing his fingers to his lips, blowing a kiss as he strode away.

Gerry sighed. “I hope he brings me a bone. Bones are my love language.” And then he dissipated back into the ether or whatever dimension spectres and ghosts inhabited, which was just above and to the left of this one. 

Jon got to his feet, toes bare and cold against the infirmary floor. He floundered internally. He probably shouldn’t wake Martin, right? Not at the risk of waking Daisy, who needed as much rest as she could give herself. Poe stretched out, eyes upon eyes opening in glowing slits as he yawned, exposing needlepoint teeth that could not fit in his little cat skull and Jon resented him for making his eyes try to make sense of it. But then he flopped over and snored, his little paws facing the ceiling, and Jon let out a tiny gasp. The absolute _beans_ on the lad. He cleared his throat, grabbed his shoes, and padded down the hallway, refusing to let affection for the fell beast creep in like an infection.

“Afternoon boss.” Tim called cheerfully from his desk. “Late night?” He wagged his brows, looking meaningfully between Jon’s bare feet and the shoes in hand. “Not the walk of shame, is it?” He continued as Jon gagged. “Don’t let society make you feel bad about your endeavours, Jonathan! We don’t slut-shame in this household. We…we slut- _celebrate_!”

“ _Timothy_.”

“Oh, hi, Jon. I almost thought you weren’t coming in today.” Sasha strode in from the breakroom, pen tucked behind one ear, a stack of manila files held close to her side, and a pastry in hand. “Georgie stopped by to see you.”

“Yes, she found me.” Jon said dryly.

“Oh, good.” Sasha looked him up and down. “Is this a casual Friday thing? Are we doing that now?”

“I think he’s had an _escapade_.” Tim stage-whispered, sharp grin from ear to ear. 

“Oh, good for you.” Sasha toasted him with her pastry before taking a vicious bite. “Does that mean you’ll be in a good mood today? I haven’t seen you in a good mood before this is quite exciting.”

“ _Sasha_.” 

“Oh, no, boss, are you going to give us a _dressing down_?” Tim said cheekily, causing Sasha to snort. He hoped she choked on that Danish.

At that moment a three-eyed crow flew in the open door and perched on Jon’s shoulder. He automatically opened his hand to receive the missive in its beak. It tilted its head, peered at the group with censure, then flew right back out. Jon unfurled the notice from HR.

“It’s addressed to ‘Mr. Stoker.’” Jon looked at Tim, back to the note, then back up again. “All it says is ‘stop.’”

“Oh she’s getting right spooky about her response time.” Tim muttered. He proffered his hand and Jon relinquished the note. Tim opened the bottom drawer in his desk which was already to the brim with such notices. He used both hands to squash the missives down then pushed the drawer closed with a careless _thunk_. 

“Martin!” Sasha sang.

Jon rounded with undue intensity. 

“Hey Sash.” Martin yawned. No hand was available to cover it, however, as his arms were full of Daisy. Martin was a big man, but Daisy was a big hound, and it was quite like looking at Shaggy holding Scooby-Doo. 

“What are you doing with Daisy?” Jon asked, heartbeat picking up. “She should be resting in the infirmary.” 

Martin looked a little wounded at his tone. “Every time I tried to leave, she whined. She even tried to hobble off the cot.” Daisy growled, just a light rumble in her chest. “Yes, yes, I know, you’re a fierce and rabid hellhound, you could rip our throats out with a glance.” ‘ _Sensitive_.’ He mouthed at the others, shrugging slightly. The growling lapsed, and Daisy put her head down on his shoulder. “I figured she didn’t want me to leave and I couldn’t stay, so I’d just bring her along. We’ll be working from the office today.” He tacked on primly looking between Daisy and Jon. 

Jon’s mouth opened but nothing came out. This whole thing developing between Martin and Daisy was odd and unnatural and, if he was completely honest with himself, it irked him. 

“I can’t help but notice, you’re both wearing the same clothes as yesterday?” Tim said, expression open and innocent even as a caw could be heard in the distance.

“Oh. Yeah. We slept together.” Martin said. Tim let out a whoop and Sasha did, in fact, choke a bit on her pastry. Jon whirled on him, faced blanched.

“Martin—”

“Oh this is _saucy_.” Tim crowed with delight. “You know we’ve had a pool going—Mike is going to be so _peeved_ —”

“ _You’ve had a what_.” Jon said.

“Hm.” Sasha said, recovered. “I didn’t think you’d figure that out on your own. Good for you, blokes.”

“Was it everything you dreamed it’d be?” Tim asked, face cradled in his hands as he leaned forward eagerly. 

“Oh, yes.” Martin said gamely. Jon shot another incredulous gaze his way.

“Well, don’t be _stingy_.”

“Pray tell, how did it go down?” Sasha asked, hip balanced against her desk. “The public wants to know.”

“Well, we were just sitting there, you know, it’d been a day. Just talking ourselves around our stress, I ‘spose.”

“Martin, what are you doing.” Jon said, panicked.

Martin merely raised an eyebrow. “I mean. The jig’s up, isn’t it? Might as well give them the Spark Notes so they’ll leave us alone. Anyways. Fast forward, we’ve run out of things to talk about except for the obvious and the unavoidable. So he gets this real odd look on his face and I say 'for god’s sake are you going to _cry_ ' and then I feel bad because he’s been through quite an ordeal this last month and he’s allowed to cry, so I shove down my panic and say 'no it’s ok just let it all out.' And through his tears he just thanks me for going where no one else could to save his best friend and I say, 'really, it’s no bother,' and he just becomes so overwhelmed so we sit there for a bit till he’s all done out and then he says—”

Jon’s fingers were so tight against his face he was certain one centimetre here or there and an eye would be plucked right out. He missed the warm embrace of Georgie’s scythe.

Tim’s mouth was open in wonder that bordered on exultation.

“—he says ‘Martin Blackwood—you’re my hero.’ And then he kisses me and begs me to read him my poetry, especially if there’s any about him—and oh, if there isn’t, would I please please write one on the spot? Oh, and then we shagged.”

The sound that emitted from Tim could only be described as a high keening, like a missile strike, or a particularly dire kettle. 

“Oh, Martin.” Sasha shook her head slowly, hand pressed to her lips. “Are you sure you don’t want to cross over to the Spiral? We’d have you any day of the week.”

“MARTIN. BLACKWOOD.” Tim burst. “How you could you lead me on like that? I thought we were mates. Forged through the fires of—of---manila folders and faulty air conditioning! Not to mention we’ve traveled the trenches of many a boring follow-up together, which only made the truly horrific ones that much sweeter!” The man looked genuinely upset.

Jon just stared at Martin, hands dangling at his sides. Martin looked back at him and smiled beatifically. “Anyways, if you’re done being thoroughly inappropriate, Tim, Daisy and I are going to nab that binder on my desk right there and head to the library to see about a man whose food keeps putrefying as soon as it touches his tongue. Common sense says Corruption but that’s boring so I’m hoping to find something fun cross-referencing. Jon, do you mind?”

“What?” Jon looked dumbly on until Martin gestured again to his desk. “Oh. Yes. Sure.” He went and retrieved the binder for Martin, but pulled up short when there was no apparent way to hand it off to him without disturbing Daisy.

“D’you mind tagging along, actually? If you’ll just drop it off with us at the library we’ll be set for hours. Right Dais’?” Martin looked down at the hound, who just grumbled at the term of endearment and sneezed. He took that as an affirmation and walked right out the door. 

“The Archives has certainly become a lot more lively recently.” Sasha noted from her perch on her desk. “I might not skip out as often.” She paused. “Can I bring Michael to play?”

“ _No_.” Tim and Jon said emphatically, in sync.

“Worth a try.” She shrugged. As Jon headed for the door, he heard Sasha speaking to Tim in a low soothing tone. “We’ve really got to get passed this, Tim. You know you’re my favourite. There are just some needs you cannot fill. Like turning people’s faces upside down.”

Jon trailed after Martin and Daisy. He did not know this Martin, brash and so open about his ability to weave tales without a hint of deception. He did not know this Daisy, who was usually a livewire and an independently careening one at that. 

When they got to the library, Martin placed Daisy gently along four chairs he’d pressed together round a table, creating an adequate space for her to lay. Jon put the binder down on the table on autopilot, not quite sure what to do with himself after his task was complete. His brow furrowed, he turned to go. 

“Jon.”

He twirled, looking at Martin with a blank, open expression. 

“A word?”

Jon swallowed. That didn’t sound good. Maybe last night was a fever dream, a relapse of his sickness brought on by the stress of losing Daisy and then the stress of not being able to get her back. He nodded slowly. Martin gestured to one of the aisles in the distance. As soon as he took a few steps, Daisy perked up, a low whine coming from her many mouths. Martin stopped and scritched behind her ears. “It’ll just be a moment, promise. Pinkie swear. Err, paw swear.” She rolled every eye on her body, which was a lot, and Jon breathed a little easier. That was more like his friend.

When Jon caught up to Martin in the shelves, safely obscured from Rosie at the circulation desk or anyone else who might be scattered among the rows, he let out a breath. “Thank you for what you did back there. I certainly couldn’t have pulled that off. And it was—it was kind of you to give us a graceful out.”

“An out?” Martin asked, fingers freezing on one of the higher shelves. He still didn’t turn around.

“I understand if you have second thoughts about…last night…I apologize for putting any pressure on you, and you were hardly recovered from the Buried, it was a dubious situation at best—”

Martin turned around slowly. “Do you—you think I deflected them because I’m having second thoughts?”

“I mean—you did make it sound like the very idea of us was worthy of ridicule. Rather thoroughly driven home.” His voice trailed into a murmur by the end.

And it was quite fine, really, Jon understood, he really did. Emotions were high and it was probably the most positive interaction they’d ever had—from his end, he thought with chagrin—and his stupid emotions ran away with it because clearly the next step from having a one-sided hate-fest was to jump headlong into a snog. Because Jonathan Sims apparently couldn’t do anything in half-measures, and pleasant conversations, a cordial handshake, mayhap a bloody _hug_ hadn’t occurred to him first. 

“Jon.” Martin said strangely, drawing Jon’s gaze up again. “I only said all that to buy us some time. To figure things out. Last night was rather quick and then the next time I saw you I was blindsided by Tim. I wasn’t going to say anything we hadn’t agreed on. Just because we—if we’re in a relationship, it doesn’t mean we have to show our cards to everyone who asks.”

Jon knew his eyes were doe-like because what a fucking blinding light Martin was. “Oh.” He said. “I um, that was incredibly considerate of you.”

“Sooo…are we a public thing or a private thing?” Martin asked. He said it over-casually, which even Jon picked up on. 

“Private…but just for now.” Jon rushed to qualify, almost beating the disappointment before it shifted Martin’s features. “Just until we—until it’s less new. And then I don’t care who knows.” Giving more was terrifying, but he knew what he was giving was not enough. “I _want_ them to know.”

It was Martin’s turn to say ‘oh.’ “They’re going to be obnoxious, you know.”

“Is there any situation in which they aren’t?” Jon countered wryly.

“We’ll have to alert HR. Ingrid will be delighted.” Martin mused.

“Ingrid? I’ve never seen her, much less delighted.”

Martin stared at him. “You’ve never met Ingrid?”

“I mean—I mean, she’s HR, Martin. No one’s met Ingrid. She talks through birds, for chrissake.”

“I’ve met Ingrid. I made her birthday cake. Which she much prefers to Martins, by the way.” 

“I wondered how you knew about that.” Jon had the sense to be ashamed. “So um. What’s she like?”

“Hard to say. Never seen her outside the dark. Mind you, it’s not real darkness, which I can see plain as day in thanks to the Buried. It’s Web darkness, manufactured. She’s always reeling silk through your brain so I’m never quite sure what I’m seeing is any real likeness, anyways. But she’s many eyes in the dark, all red. If the lighting in the hall is right, you can see the silhouette of her pincers. She’s got so many limbs twisted in and around themselves, I’m convinced. But it’s hard to tell because she’s got at least three bodies, you know.”

“What.”

“Yes, she’s a collective. You didn’t know that?” Martin tilted his head. 

“I did not. So are they just psychologically linked? Does just one body eat the cake?”

Martin shrugged. “I don’t know. I just left three cakes in the doorway and power-walked away. I said that she _prefers_ cakes to Martins, not that she doesn’t eat them.” He paused. “Though she might have preferred me if you put a bow on.”

“You’re never going to get over that are you.” 

“Not likely, no.” Martin teased. 

“I guess I’ll just have to give you better things to think about.” He pushed Martin against the bookshelf, spines bending under his weight. He slid his hand up the other man’s jumper, who stifled a noise with his sleeve. Jon, encouraged, dragged Martin to his level, wrapping a hand in the curls at the nape of his neck. He cherished the feeling of petals falling lightly on him as he claimed his lips, tugging at them with his teeth. His thumb slid below Martin’s waistband to graze his hipbone and he squirmed against him. Jon put a firm hand on his hip, holding him steady as he gave attention to his jaw, feathering kisses over it, only to leave quick, heated bites down his neck and across his collarbone. Jon did not do anything in half-measures, and now that Martin was his, he was going to cherish and ravage every inch of him.

“You’re quite, stereotypical, you know.” Martin said in stilted, painstakingly controlled words.

Jon paused, gaze flicking up, not sure whether to be offended. 

Martin mimed fangs. “Very bite-y.” 

“Is that a complaint?” Jon asked, less offended than curious. He certainly hadn’t seemed to mind last night. Jon was naturally inclined to bite and most people seemed naturally inclined to like being bitten, but he could rein himself in if it was an issue. He liked to see his marks on the skin of those he courted, but he tried to be a man first and a creature second. 

“Only if you stop.” Martin was apparently one to give as good as he got, and tugged Jon back into him with a directness he was not expecting. He tasted like lavender and strong tea and Jon melted into him. “Did you know you’re actually the most beautiful monster I’ve ever seen? Like, god, Jon, just _look_ at you.” Martin stroked a hand through Jon’s hair, angling his face so he could kiss every scar engraved in his skin, ending at the long-healed gash across his neck.

Jon prided himself on his restraint and self-discipline but he did not calculate in Martin Blackwood’s nice words and gentle kisses and soft grinding.

_Hell._

Rosie peeked her head around the corner of the neighboring aisle.

“No moaning in the library.”


	20. ashes to ashes we all fall down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Magnus Institute employees really should have a union at this point.
> 
> CWs this chapter: mild gore, mild nudity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello once again friends & fam! I hope this week has been gentle to you. As always, thank you for joining me on this escapade constructed by my grime brain. This week's returning episode just shortcircuited my brain, it was incredibly personal for me, and I need three business days to process. If you would like to join me howling in the woods, please fill out the attached google doc and let me know of your forest of choice.

“I know we’d all rather get back to our work so I’ll keep this brief.” Elias said, standing crisply at the forefront of the boardroom. A three-eyed crow perched on his shoulder, no doubt acting as a direct feed to Ingrid. “Clearly, a lot has gone on at the Institute within the last couple of months. It has been quite a bit more…interesting than you signed up for, at least as far as what you can expect being inside these hallowed halls.”

Elias was very good at understating things with a straight face so they seemed reasonable, while in fact they were bloody insane, Martin thought as he stroked the top of Daisy’s head. She had yet to go back to her mortal form. He knew it confounded Jon, even irritated him. For someone who Knew so much, Jon was rather dense when it came to emotional matters, seeming to have the emotional intelligence of a single bran muffin. He had shaken it out when Daisy started following him around the Institute. She had suffered a great and no doubt lasting trauma, and he was the one who had pulled her out of the dark. If she ever went back to that suffocating place, he was the one who could get her out.

Plainly, she had imprinted upon him like a little duckling. 

A very violent, sharp-fanged, brimstone kind of duckling. A rare breed. 

“We are, of course, delighted to have Daisy back in our ranks.” Elias nodded to the hellhound, who dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Though we can never recompense the recent sacrifices you’ve endured in the line of duty, you will be receiving double hazard pay. Martin.”

Martin jumped slightly in his seat. He looked slightly up and to the left of Elias, he hated to meet the man’s gaze. It was unnerving at best, with its piercing focus, and he did all he could to avoid the man’s attention altogether.

“While your bravery is certainly commendable and your self-sacrifice to the cause of helping your teammate is admirable, there is no getting around the fact that you made an unauthorized trip into an eldritch dimension, taking upon yourself unnecessary risks outside your job description. Again.” Elias’ tone was dryer than bone. “As such, there will be another denotation of insubordination in your file. We do not play favourites here at the Institute, and there is no hedging around policy. However, in recognition of your service, this will not affect your performance review.”

Daisy made a noise akin to a hyena chortle, if a hyena chortle was disdainful. Martin patted her idly. If that was all that would come of it, he was more than grateful. Cross the line with insubordination too much, and you got sent to Isolation, through which you were reminded the importance of collaboration and restraint to the aim of maintaining relative obscurity for the pantheon of Fear. 

Not everyone made it back from Isolation.

“Let this serve as a reminder to you all that we value each of you as an asset to the Institute’s aims and your actions have consequences beyond yourselves. Rest assured going forward I am collaborating with Security to put even more measures in place to keep this a neutral and safe space for all representatives of the Entities.” Elias nodded shortly. “That concludes this debriefing. If you have further questions or concerns, feel free to drop by during my office hours.” With that, Elias exited the room, leaving the others to dissolve into their feedback, which they most definitely would not be sharing with Elias.

“’We value each of you as an asset to the Institute’s aims.’” Mike parroted in a passable imitation of Elias’ somber bass. “Do you think he even knows how to talk about people other than like they’re bars of gold or a particularly dependable stock portfolio?”

“Once he told me I was a delight.” Sasha said, leaning with her chin in her palm. “He wasn’t even being dry.”

“You’re _lying_.” Tim said, falling back onto all four legs of his chair from where he’d been tipped back on the hind legs.

“I _am_.” Sasha cackled. “He told me I was ‘remarkably tolerable for one of my ilk.’ _Ilk_.”

“After my interview he told me I was the first Siren he’d met and that he didn’t understand the appeal.” Tim scoffed.

“You had an interview?” Jon asked. “He just looked at me and said ‘yes.’”

“Does it count as an interview if I just walked into his office, told him I was a retired lead detective, and that I was ready to kill the things needing killing?” Basira asked.

“Did he ask you something back?” Martin asked. He couldn’t imagine anyone saying ‘no’ to Basira and it had nothing to do with charm, though she was endearing in her way, with her stoic exterior and unexpected bursts of warmth. He rather thought that people who said ‘no’ to Basira, barring consent being key, ended up persuaded by a knife. Or, being a Phoenix of the Desolation, not so spontaneous combustion. 

“’When can you start?’” She dipped her chin in Daisy’s direction. “She and I were a package deal since she had also just resigned from Section 31. They had too much red tape for her.”

“What about you, Martin?” Agnes asked, hands sat primly in her lap. “You never did tell me.”

Martin heated slightly as the room’s attention turned toward him. His blush deepened under Jon’s gaze. He’d asked the same question on multiple occasions, rhetorical, and with disdain: _how did_ you _get hired_. “I, um. He said he was impressed with my CV, and when I mentioned I was one of the Buried who could talk to plants, he saw how that would be infinitely useful for fieldwork.” He didn’t look at Jon as he answered, because even though he was a top shelf liar, one of the best in the game, Jon Saw him a lot more clearly than he used to. 

Elias had, in fact, barely glanced at his CV and said ‘Are you sure you’re not kin to the Web? Do you have anything for me other than fabrications?’ And then Martin had opened up about some of his rarer abilities as an avatar. Elias had smiled as genuine a smile as Martin had ever seen from him since, which was truly a low bar, and said ‘Ah. Now _that_ I have use of.’

“You’re also one of the kindest avatars in existence.” Agnes said demurely, with a soft smile. “Our kind don’t value that as much as they should. Very useful for being the public face of all us creepy crawlies.”

He might have just imagined it, but for a fraction of a moment it seemed like Jon was frowning as he considered Agnes and then Martin. But surely Jon, self-possessed, arrogant Jon of the Hunt, did not let such trifles as an ex’s affections ruffle him. 

“Thank you, Agnes.” He smiled, equally small and fond. “Most find it a weakness.” And he preferred it that way. Better people see him as fangless than what he really was. He was never one to need to strut and flex his abilities and never one to undervalue the power of underestimation. 

Fear tasted like pure honeysuckle when it came from unsuspecting hearts.

“Well now I feel boring.” Mike said, unbothered. “We had a proper back and forth and he deemed me sufficient.”

“He didn’t speak to me at all.” Agnes mused.

“What?” Basira asked. “You never told me that.”

“It seemed rude at the time, but now that we’re sharing. I do love to support us being communal.” She dipped her head thoughtfully. “I just sat across from him and we regarded each other in silence for a few minutes and then I nodded and then he nodded and then I filled out some paperwork.”

While the others looked varying levels of taken aback and baffled, Martin was unsurprised. If you spent any time one on one with Agnes, she had whole conversations without ever uttering a syllable. Surely Elias Saw something within her, especially if she made it easier for him by opening the door, but she had a self-assured aura and was renowned as one of the most subtle and lethal of the Desolation. In the Cult of the Lightless Flame, she actually outranked Basira.

“Melanie?”

“Yes?”

“Do share with the class.” Mike implored.

Melanie shrugged. “Not much to say. Basic interview, really.” She idly buffed the dagger lain flatwise across her thigh, which appeared to be being purged of a layer of dried blood. Corruption, most likely, given how it appeared a deep green. “Oh. I guess I did try to kill him at the end.”

“What. I’m sorry, what.” Martin asked, his voice going up an octave and cracking.

“Ugh. If I applied for Containment I could have done that. Instead I had to wear my reading glasses and look respectable.” Jon grumbled.

“You have prescription glasses?” Sasha asked incredulously. “Do you have the receipt, you need to return your vampire eyes.”

“They’re purely for aesthetic.” Jon sniffed.

“Mm. Yes, I recall that.” Basira nodded sagely at Melanie. “Definitely a bold choice, I respected it when he told me. Said you’d fit right in.”

“I drew blood.” Melanie said proudly. And it was quite a feat, matched up against someone like Elias who transcended all known incarnations of Beholding’s avatars.

“What’d you do with it?” Jon asked with keen interest. 

“Ate it. Didn’t do much. Sometimes I can guess a few words ahead of what people are going to say.” Departments like Containment that were only just tangential to records and research had the loosest connections to the Eye, which meant, pitiably, that Melanie was likely the most touched by the Ceaseless Watcher out of all of Containment and she barely had a parlor trick. If Jon wasn’t there to take or record statements, Martin did, often enough that he had a light grasp on compulsion and could on occasion reach for knowledge he himself did not possess.

“What’s he taste like?” Jon asked, this time trying to look as uninterested as possible and failing miserably because he was an actual vampire.

“Iron, Jon, I’m not a connoisseur like you.” Melanie said dryly.

“We better get back to work.” Basira said, getting up. “I’ve still got to finish the case report on the Unknowing. Mike, you have the extraction paperwork.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Mike got up, shaking himself out. 

“Martin—” 

“Yes?”

“Is it okay for Daisy to tag along with you for the time being? Unless that’ll get in the way of your fieldwork.” Basira looked down to address the hound. “Sorry, Daisy, but you’re not much help without thumbs. You’ll have to be on desk duty once you start walking on two legs again, anyways, until you clear a psych eval.”  
Daisy glowered, little embers sparking in her backlit eyes. After a moment she reined herself in, nodding brusquely.

“That’s fine with me.” Martin assured both of them. “Can I count on you to not try to eat and/or maim anyone I have to interview?”

Daisy bowed her head.

“And innocent bystanders, in the vicinity, while we’re on the clock in broad daylight or otherwise?”

This time Daisy nodded slower. 

“I’m holding you to that. You’ll have to wear a collar, you know.” 

“She’s got one in her desk.” Melanie offered. “For when she wanders around the streets during the day. Got Basira’s number on it.” She grinned.

“Daisy.” Jon said, perturbed. “You’ve never mentioned that.”

“She kept getting the humane society and animal control called on her.” Basira explained. “After she bit the second, we had to tighten up so someone didn’t try to euthanize her.” She looked at Daisy again, this time in fond exasperation. “I didn’t feel like having to Section 31 a pound.”

“Wouldn’t be fair to the actual good boys and girls.” Mike quipped.

Daisy growled without weight behind it. Clearly Mike and her had the kind of relationship where she allowed his barbs. Likely because if she didn’t actively choose to, Mike would just be a footnote in her file, Martin theorised.

Jon clapped his hands. “Well. With all that settled. Grab a donut on your way out if you like, but if you’re Archival staff, get back to work posthaste, or you’ll be logging weekend hours.” He strode out of the room, gaze touching on Martin’s briefly before pointedly moving on.

The room emptied out around him. 

“You coming Mart-o?” Tim asked, holding a donut in each hand and stuffing one in his mouth.

“Yep.” He wandered over to the picked-over box of pastries, selected a jelly donut for himself, then glanced back at Daisy. “Do you want anything? I know it’s no camper in the woods, but. Getting some carbs and sugar in you is probably a good idea while you’re healing.”

Daisy shook her head.

Martin tsked. “Humour me?” She hadn’t eaten since she entered the infirmary. He canted his eyebrows up in an imploring expression. Sasha called them his puppy eyes, which he found rather demeaning.

Daisy let out a belabored sigh, trotting over. He held the box nose level for her and she tilted her head in the general direction of a blueberry scone. 

“Thank you.” Martin said as he put it in a napkin for her. She merely huffed and followed him back to the Archival offices. When they got back to his desk, he put the napkin on the floor for Daisy, who curled at the foot of his chair.

“Martin?” Jon called from his office. Martin jolted. It was still so odd hearing Jon say his name not only devoid of irritation, but actively pleasant.

“Yes?” He ducked his head into the office.

“What are you hovering there for? Come in.” Jon’s brow crinkled.

“Oh. Um. Yeah.” He leaned on the back of the chair across from Jon. “What—uh—what is it?”

“I have a statement for you to follow up on. An interview with a tube attendant who made a statement a couple weeks ago. About a ‘ghost car.’” Jon rolled his eyes. He was oddly judgmental of mortals who bought into the occult, considering what he was. 

“Oh. Well. Yes, that is what I do. Follow-up on statements.” 

Jon narrowed his eyes at him. “Why are you being so odd?”

“I am—I am being positively mundane.” Martin said indignantly.

“You are _not_ you are acting like this is your first week all over again, like a bumbling intern.”

Martin raked a hand through his hair, his flowers bending under his touch. “Oh. Okay, that’s better.”

Jon’s eyebrows ticked up before one settled in an arch. “What’s better? What was wrong in the first place?”

“It’s um—it’s a bit disorienting, having you, uh, be nice to me in the office.” Martin coughed.

That wiped the vaguely miffed confusion off of Jon’s face. “Was I really _that_ bad?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re saying—that me being rude to you is—a good thing now.” 

“I mean, it’s uh, certainly familiar.” 

“But I don’t _want_ to be rude to you now.”

Martin walked back to the door, tried to peek out inconspicuously, and gently closed the door. “You might have to be Jon. I don’t know how to act around you in the Archives anymore.”

“You did just fine earlier?” 

“I was thinking on my feet!” Martin said in a sharp whisper. “If it were anyone else, in any other context, I could just—act like nothing’s amiss, but you—” He trailed off, looking to the side, at a moth pinned behind glass on the wall. He chewed at his bottom lip.

“I what?” Jon asked slowly.

“You throw me off my game, okay?” 

Jon’s expression softened. “Oh. Hm.”

“Yeah, _hm_.” 

“I could—it’s not ideal by any means—but I could _compel_ you to be calm around me. Just when we’re in the Archives.” Jon offered.

Martin snapped his gaze back to Jon’s. Jon seemed taken aback by the intensity there. “No.” Martin said. He shook his head, forcibly unclenched his jaw. “Sorry. I just—I don’t ever want someone else in my head again.” The feeling of the Hive chewing holes through his thoughts caused a shiver to run down his spine.

“Ah.” Jon replied. “Perfectly understandable.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you—”

Jon held up a staying hand. “You don’t owe me reasons, Martin. I will endeavour to be…mean to you.” The words looked sour by the way Jon’s face screwed up.

Martin huffed out a short laugh. “I mean, you can be decent. Just throw in an unimpressed look and a backhanded compliment here and there.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment. “I really was a hall of fame prick to you.”

Martin shrugged. “You’re my prick.” As soon as the words caught up with his brain, he put a hand over his mouth as if he could catch them in a butterfly net and take them back. “Sorry.”

“Whatever for? You’re not wrong.” Jon smiled, a soft smile that was still foreign and the knowledge that it was _his his his_ was heady. “But maybe let’s not give it up so easily, hm?”

Martin put the back of his fists to his cheeks, pressing them into his warm flesh like it could drain the blush away. “Anyways, the interview?”

“Yes. I’d like you to ask some cursory questions—maybe say you’re doing recon for _What the Ghost_ —I’m sure Georgie won’t mind. Just let her know you’ve heard rumours about the train that stops at a stop that isn’t there. Ride it if you will.”

“You want me to ride in a car on a ghost train.” Martin said tonelessly.

“Ghosts aren’t real, Martin. And I highly doubt there is anything paranormal about this one.”

“And your track record has been so good.” Martin said, deadpan. “Remember when you sent Tim and I to stake out that distillery you were so sure was nothing and we met a very, very territorial Lesser of the Flesh?”

“You got an extra two weeks of paid vacation?” Jon offered.

“Jon I almost became a craft beer.”

“You’ll have Daisy with you.” He paused. “You know she’s healed, right? She’s in fighting shape. She’s just not—not totally herself right now.” Worry was deep-set in his features and Martin felt a twinge in his chest.

“She’s been through a lot, Jon.” Martin said gently. “You don’t go into the Casket and come out the same.”

“It’s Daisy.” Jon shook his head. “She’ll bounce back. That’s what she does.”

Martin just smiled, a small crescent of a thing. There were gardens he could not tread, and whatever lay between Jon and Daisy was one of them. “Alright. We’ll take your spooky ghost train. Let me just nip some salt packets from the breakroom right quick, see if there’s iron in the junk drawer, you’ve a spare crucifix?”

“I abhor everything about what you just said.”

Martin drew closer, leaning on the desk with both palms as he bent over Jon. Jon looked up at him uneasily. “What are you doing? Stop being so tall, you’re _looming_.”

“Let me just get on your level, then.” Martin bent further, pressing a kiss into Jon’s greying temple, savouring the little noise of surprise he made, the feel of Jon’s smooth skin and pocked scars under his lips. When he pulled away, Jon’s cheeks were just the slightest pink, more like the promise of pink than pink itself.

“What was that about?” Tim asked when he came back into the assistants’ open office, leaving the door to Jon’s office cracked.

“Were in there for quite awhile.” Sasha mused. 

“Jon just wanted to rehash the fact that I need to stop bringing negative attention to the team by acting first and asking later.”

“Well I for one appreciate your newfound rebellious streak, Martin.” Tim said, hand over his heart. “Fuck the Man!” 

“A little vanilla for my taste, but I support the sentiment.” Sasha allowed.

“What can I say, I missed out on a rebellious teenage phase. You ready, Daisy?”

Daisy trotted over, crumbs dotting her muzzle, adorable in a way that would get his hand bit if he mentioned it. He reached into his pocket for the collar that Basira had dropped off. It was pink with rhinestone accents, a daisy print wrapped around it, and the word ‘PRINCESS’ stamped on the front. 

It did not make Daisy look any less capable of foraging for your intestines through the eviscerated flesh of your abdomen.

“I can’t wait to tell Jon how bloody wrong he was.” Martin heaved, hours later, as he and Daisy emerged from the underground. His nailbeds were bloody from scraping against rusted metal and he was certainly bruised from head to toe from barreling through turnstiles.

Jon had misremembered the statement, no doubt because he dismissed it out of hand.

The train car that wasn’t did not lead to a platform that wasn’t.

It led to a tunnel full of soft glowing lights like miniature stars dotting the deep tapestry of complete darkness, a darkness even Martin’s eyes could not penetrate.

It led to a nest of Anglerfish in a symbiotic relationship with the Dark.

Daisy yipped her agreement. Her teeth were strung with sinew, muzzle soaked with blood the colour of rotting plums.

As soon as they got to his flat—if Jon, Elias, or Beholding itself had an issue with him cutting the day short, they could sod off and then some—Martin shared a bottle of water with Daisy and then collapsed onto his bed, not even bothering with covers. Daisy flopped down at his feet, rolling over and playing dead, tongue lolling.

“You’re telling me.” Martin agreed, every ounce of energy spent.

He couldn’t pinpoint the moment a minute of resting his eyes led to full sleep, but when he woke up, it was the next day. Disoriented by the light, he kept his eyes slits as he adjusted.

A sharp rap came from the door.

That was when Martin noticed a distinct lack of a canine by his feet.

There was, however, a very much naked Daisy.

The knocking became increasingly urgent. 

Martin swore, shut his bedroom door and lunged for the door. “Yes?” He asked breathlessly as he pulled it open.

Jon was on his doorstep, drenched in blood from head to toe, charred flesh reeking as it peeled off his face and floated to the ground like cursed snow. 

“I killed Jude Perry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) :) :)


	21. facing the music and music is a blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the aftermath of Jon murdering Jude Perry unravels.
> 
> CWs this chapter: gore, body horror, scars/mutilation, self harm, cruelty, mildly spicy content like think nutmeg not jalapeno.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello radiant sunflowers! Welcome to this unspooling of my mind once again! Thank you for joining me on this tour. Fun fact: I did not know I was murdering Jude Perry last chapter !! I just! Did It! Haha so this chapter is truly me just letting my fingers type whatever tf they want, which is typically my process anyways, but I am rarely as surprised like last chapter. 
> 
> Hope you are well hope you are at peace! <3

Jon looked like a crime scene and a half, sitting at his fake marble counter, nursing a cup of strong black tea in his blood-drenched hands. He was staring into the steam and Martin was staring at him.

“Jon.” 

His boyfriend—god, his _boyfriend_ —flinched, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“We need to get you cleaned up.” Martin said gently. That was it, that was the first step. Martin was good at this part, the after care and the soft navigating of deeply terrible experiences. Martin understood getting the top layer of grime off before getting to the marrow of what lay beneath.

Jon, uncharacteristically pliant, allowed Martin to tug him gently toward the washroom. Even more concerning, he let Martin guide him to sit on the edge of the counter, tucked between the wall and the sink. Martin got a bar of coarse soap from the sink that he really only used after slumber parties in the forest that he and his kin occasionally held. He lathered it briskly and began the arduous work of scrubbing layers of crusted blood off of Jon—he was a Basquiat painting of gore. Jon twitched and Martin made a soothing noise as he loosened some of the gravel ground into his palms. He avoided the patches of crispy, dead flesh, only addressing them with a cursory caress of the cloth. When he got to Jon’s face, using deep circles of the cloth to reveal his pink, scratched up skin underneath, the other man closed his eyes and leaned into his touch.

“Basira’s going to kill me.”

Martin started at the croak that served as Jon’s voice. It was the first thing he’d said since announcing the murder of Jude Perry on his doorstep.

“She won’t.” Martin instantly returned, confident. Not only was Jon more than a fond acquaintance to Basira, he was the heart of the Archives. The most favoured of the Hunt. Executing him would cause a civil war amongst the Entities. 

“I broke the Obsidian law, Martin.” Jon’s tone was colourless, almost dispassionate. Like he was making an offhand academic observation. “And worse, Jude was of high favour in the Cult, a specially marked conduit of the Desolation. It doesn’t matter that she was slated for execution. Only Basira and Agnes could have pulled that off diplomatically.”

“Well, it was in self-defense, yea? It’s not like you went seeking her out. Surely that counts for something.”

Martin was discomfited by Jon’s heavy silence.

“Right?” Martin implored, heartbeat beginning to tick faster.

Jon looked away and Martin’s hand paused in its ministrations, leaving Jon’s face roughly divided between raw, cleansed skin and the mark of what could only be called a reckoning. Martin was well aware of Jon’s longstanding enmity for Jude, and Martin didn’t blame him. He didn’t know the intimate details, something about Jude betraying him? Or was it tricking him? Whatever it was, the history ran deep and close to the bone, memorialised in the raised hellfire of a scar on his dominant hand.

“Oh, Jon.” Martin finally breathed, almost a whisper. “Tell me.”

“I didn’t intend to. Not at first.” Jon started, beginning to pick at his nailbeds. “Hunt her, I mean. I just felt this—this godforsaken _twinge_ in my scar, in her mark. I’d never felt it like that before and I Knew, I Knew if I listened to it, it would lead me to her. I hadn’t seen her in over a year, you know. If you’ve noticed, I’ve outsourced all the statements regarding the Desolation under Elias’s— _suggestion_.” Read: command. “We all knew, in the most mundane sense, that I couldn’t be trusted with anything that brought us into each other’s orbit. I only have so much restraint. And I didn’t want to restrain myself at all.” Jon’s voice dipped into a whisper at the end.

Martin stayed his hands before Jon could completely tear up his cuticles. He abandoned the cloth for the moment, rubbing circles into the back of Jon’s hands with his thumbs. Jon looked down at their joined hands in distant wonder. The Hunt was still prevalent in his eyes, the whites obscured by fathomless darkness, his irises incandescent against his slit pupils. His teeth were too sharp, not just his regular overly long canines, but all of them, like piranha teeth always a second away from finding what bled in the water and leaving it in scraps.

“I’d wondered about that.” Martin admitted. He’d noticed the pattern a couple years into his work at the Institute, how it was always Sasha or Tim or him sifting through the ashes, why it was always them who took the statements, who were left with phantom smoke in their lungs and ghostly burns in their unblemished flesh. “So, naturally, you followed the trail.”

“She barely got a sentence out.” Jon said. “I’m not one for monologues, for declarations of restitution. I prefer to get straight to the meat of the matter, as it were.” He laughed humourlessly, a bitter huff of air. “Her blood was all I needed. To see it soaking into the floor.” He paused, shaking his head. “I’m a simple creature.”

Martin tried not to panic, he really did. It wasn’t that Jon was sitting there looking like his mind was detached from his body. Not that though he was calm and measured, Martin could sense and almost palpably feel the Hunt still prevalent, that he was on a hair trigger. He didn’t judge Jon and he didn’t think he acted particularly out of hand. It was only the law in the way, and the law was unforgiving. “On the floor?” He asked, tone carefully controlled. “Jon you didn’t—you didn’t kill her around people did you? Where did you leave her?”

Jon’s gaze snapped up, sharpened and seemingly Seeing Martin proper for the first time. “I’m a careful Hunter, Martin. I trailed her until she went into a rundown apartment building. I don’t know why she was there and I don’t care. It certainly wasn’t her home, there was no scent of her anywhere. I’d always thought she was a Dragon but it turns out she was a common Phoenix.” He scoffed. “Best thing she’s ever done for me, collapsing into ash and taking care of disposal for me.” He paused, concern overtaking his face. He pulled his hands away. “I’m sorry, I just scared you then, didn’t I?”

Martin couldn’t lie that the intensity of his Hunter’s gaze triggered a fight or flight response. Avatars were not invincible after all, merely sturdy, and he had no doubt that even with charred muscles and exposed bone in one arm, Jon could make quick work of him. Still, he took Jon’s hands back, refusing to let him pull away, fold back into himself. He was an unrepentant Hunter, that was clear, but he had bruises in his heart, soft places where he could not guard himself and sharp places he could not protect others from. Martin pressed a determined kiss into each palm, the second a near brush against his ruined hand.

“More scared _for_ you than anything.” Martin assured him. 

“Oh.” Jon breathed. Martin wondered how much rejection Jon had endured to be so thoroughly shocked by the slightest acceptance. Martin wanted a list of names and a list of fears and he wanted to twine the lists together in such a way that the Buried was sated for a century. Jon lifted his unravaged hand to reach up and run his fingertips down Martin’s face, looking at him like he was a small miracle in the dingy washroom. “I don’t know how I ever thought you were anything other than something to be cherished.”

Martin blushed beneath his hand, no doubt warming Jon’s cool palm.

“They’re coming for me, you know.” Jon said, withdrawing his hand reluctantly.

Martin sighed and resumed cleaning Jon’s face. “What are we going to do?”

Jon mouthed ‘ _we_ ,’ a small, regretful smile perched on his lips. “I don’t know what can be done. I shouldn’t even be here, dragging you into this mess. I should leave, you’re already at risk of breaking the law by association, harbouring me.” He made as if to get up and Martin pressed on his shoulders. He tossed the ruined washcloth into the basin, rested his hands on Jon’s thighs. 

“I would have found a way to throw myself into it once I heard about it.” Martin said firmly. “Are you—are you going to run? Are we going to run?”

Jon shook his head slowly after a drawn out moment of contemplation. “No. No, that will guarantee a horrible end to this horrible story. I think I’ll turn myself in.” He sighed. “After all this, I can’t bring myself to regret it, you know? I am content. I didn’t take any of her blood, you know. I didn’t want to be polluted by any part of her. I just left it all screaming red on the threadbare carpet, where the concrete broke through. I ripped her thread by thread until there was no more to rip, and then what was left of her sifted through my fingers, stinking ash.” 

Martin huffed a laugh, bewildering Jon. “Leave it to you to be the most repressed, unadorned person I’ve ever known, to only be poetic about the gruesome death of a rival.” 

A rap sounded on the door, and Daisy peeked her head in before opening the door fully. Thank God, she was dressed in a pair of Martin’s sweats and a shirt that absolutely drowned her. 

Jon raised a brow. “Should I be more concerned that I found you bare in my lover’s bed?” He asked, heatless and sardonic.

Martin choked and Daisy glanced at him, amused, as she took in the revelation in stride. White noise flooded Martin’s brain as the word _lover_ bounced around like a 90s screensaver, short-circuiting his neurons. 

“Jealous?” Daisy asked. “I would have invited you in if you weren’t covered with blood. Pretty sight, by the way, never seen you look better.” Martin didn’t know how he felt about the earnestness of the statement and how Jon preened. 

“I’m not one for sharing. Go track down your own flower boy.” He said simply. “I keep telling you, you should bring a little rucksack with you. One day you’re going to wake up in a truly compromising setting stark naked.”

“I am not Dora the Bloody Explorer.” Daisy growled. “Anyways, be more concerned about yourself.”

“Did you alert Basira?” Jon sighed. 

Daisy made a noise of surprise. “Of course not. Not without your blessing. I’d figured we’d go in together.” She cocked her head. “You do plan on going in, right? That’s your slim shot at living unscathed. But you know—if things go sour, I’ll go down with you.”

“It won’t come to that.” Martin said with a confidence he only managed by every part of him going numb at the weight of the situation fully sinking in. “Daisy, will you do me a favour and fetch Jon some clothes? He’d probably do better without wearing the trophies of his crimes.”

He didn’t understand why Jon was laughing openly and why Daisy was pinning him with a glare. Silence stretched on until Daisy finally said through gritted teeth, “Maybe reconsider your word choice.” 

He thought over his request and the chagrin set in. “Shit. Sorry.”

She just huffed and left, presumably to gather some clothes for Jon.

“Maybe tread lightly with the dog puns.” Jon suggested, eyes still lit with mirth. “Her bite is in fact leagues worse than her bark, darling.” The endearment slipped out so easily, so intentionally, without a trace of regret, and it made Martin’s heart do strange things, things he wanted to write poems about when he parsed out what those profane and impossibly soft sensations were.

He didn’t know what to do other than keel over, his heart finally giving out due to the horrible and beautiful events of the last 48 hours. He settled on taking Jon’s savaged arm in his hands. “I’m sorry I can’t heal this. But I can help a little, with the pain, and I can prevent it from getting infected before you can heal on your own.” 

Jon tilted his head, immediately absorbed in the hungry curiosity that the Eye did not spawn but stoked. “How is that?”

“It’s um. It’s a little gross.” Martin shrugged shyly. “But ah, it’s kind of like how you healed me?” 

Jon’s eyes went wide, torn between amusement and something else. “Are you going to…lick me?”

Martin let out a startled, mortified laugh. “Ah, no Jon, unless that’s what you’re into? But it certainly wouldn’t help you heal.” 

It was Jon’s turn to be embarrassed. “No thank you.”

“Can I borrow your knife?” 

Jon reached into his jeans pocket. Martin didn’t need to ask if he even had a knife. There was no Hunter prowling the world without as many sharp things on their person as they could get away with. Predictably, Jon pulled out a rather dignified switchblade, one inlaid with mother of pearl. 

“Oh. That’s pretty.” 

Jon hummed, considering. “I have prettier. But she’s reliable.”

“’She?’” Martin echoed.

Jon lifted his chin, clearly determined to not be embarrassed, daring Martin to comment. “Her name is Artemis and she is not a lady to be trifled with.” 

Martin just smiled fondly. How just like Jon to have knives for pets. He accepted the knife with played up reverence to which Jon tsked, though clearly pleased. He dragged the knife down his palm and thick amber liquid poured out in a heavy, lazy stream. 

Jon sucked in a breath. “What is that? I thought you bled?”

“I do a lot of things.” Martin shrugged. 

“You’ve hidden quite a lot from the records, haven’t you?” Jon asked keenly. 

“Are all of your properties in ink in a file drawer?” Martin said without remorse.

Jon’s eyes narrowed, an admission as much as if he’d spoken aloud. His expression cleared. “Always a surprise with you, Martin Blackwood. Now that I know to really look.”

Martin cut a twin rivulet in his opposite palm, this one dripping gold. He lifted Jon’s arm and squeezed, thick drops drizzling on the ruined flesh, the cooked fat and charred bone. Jon hissed as his horrifically open wounds felt the slightest pressure. When he was through, he squeezed the other palm, a weighted rain of amber. “The honey will help sterilize the wound. The sap will act as a numbing agent and provide a protective layer. Think of it like preserving a bug. It will need to be washed off in a day or so, so it can heal properly.” 

“Like a bug.” Jon said in a withering tone, awe disrupted. 

Martin rolled his eyes. “Like a rare and perfect rose, preserved for all time so each generation might be blessed by its holy visage.” 

“I’ll accept it. At least it’s more accurate.” Jon sniffed. Martin didn’t tell him he carried both inside him, flora and fauna alike, carefully curated in amber, waiting to be buried like treasure in the earth whenever he eventually died. Because they all met the End eventually, didn’t they? Sure, Avatars were more durable than mortals, but they were incredibly prone to in-fighting and the End sat pretty, patient for a powerful feast.

Jon sat, equally patient as Martin wrapped what was most of his right arm. Daisy came back with a set of clothes, a threadbare ruby jumper with a train stitched into it, and a pair of his oldest joggers, which were serviceable when cinched as tightly as they could go. Daisy shrugged. “Figured I should pick the most worn clothes, in case there’s more blood to be had before the day’s up.”

“There’s always more blood to be had.” Jon murmured to himself.

Daisy and Martin left him to change, standing around mugs of tea on the counter that had long since gone frigid.

“So.” Daisy said finally. “Things have gone quite tits up and sideways, hm?”

Martin exhaled a laugh through his nose. “Yeah, that’s about right.” 

“He’ll make it through.” Daisy said, almost as a comfort. Unlike Martin, her confidence was built on the foundation of surety. “He always does.”

“How can you be so sure?” Martin asked quietly. Now that he didn’t need to wear a brave face, it peeled back, exposing the doubt that needled at his nerves.

“He’s special. Coveted.” She didn’t elaborate. “Plus, he has us.”

Martin felt some meaningful type of way that Daisy spoke of him like he was—not pack, but considered to be on the same team in a way that set him apart. Valued him. 

She rapped her sharp nails against the counter. “Thank you.” The words seemed pulled out of her, about as pleasant as a tapeworm. At his confusion, she continued. “For coming for me. For these last couple of days.”

The tension bled out of Martin. “Ah. Well. Anytime.” At her raised eyebrow he amended. “Well, anytime but try not to do it again?”

“Try not to be shoved kicking and clawing into a dank hell dimension.” 

“Hah. Point.”

When Jon emerged from the washroom in Martin’s clothes, he wanted to bundle him up in his arms and his briars and never let anyone breach them. Jon shuffled shyly, the ankles of the joggers spilling onto his Oxfords which had died in the line of duty.

“Choo choo.” Daisy whistled. That snapped Jon right back. He growled, and the sound reverberating in his throat did odd things to Martin’s stomach and lower. He didn’t want to say it for fear of making Jon feel bad, but the reason the jumper was so threadbare was because it was Martin’s favourite, and the inspired thought of him throwing Jon over his shoulder and doing decidedly impolite things to the person he cherished most while he wore what he cherished the most was, well, riveting.

“We best get going.” Jon said, entirely sober. 

Martin took his hand. Daisy fell into step beside them as they alighted down the stairs and made for the nearest tube station. 

“Alright Little Engine that Could, let’s get to it.” Daisy said as they all stared up at the Institute. The sky was appropriately grey, gathering for a storm. 

Jon’s long, delicate fingers tightened around Martin’s as they climbed the steps. Martin squeezed back as if he could channel every ounce of his devotion through the bare clasp of flesh.

Elias, Basira, and Agnes were waiting just inside.

“Oh, Jonathan.” Elias sighed.


	22. through the looking glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon is sentenced and Martin concludes he has increasingly questionable taste in friends.
> 
> CWs this chapter: threats of violence, possessiveness, mild self harm, raw meat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, pals, we're back in the B a d l a n d s.

“I’m glad you’ve made the wise decision to not run from this, Archivist.” Elias said, expression unreadable. 

“I doubt I would have gotten very far if I had. Might as well get it over and done with, hm?” It was an admirable stab at bravado. Jon’s hand, burnt like a cruel offering, clenched tighter around Martin’s. 

“In that case, I do so appreciate your consideration for efficiency.” Elias arched a perfect brow. Everything about him was well-kept, nuanced, intentional. A perfectly curated human skin for whatever lurked underneath, and from what Jon had Seen in his peripherals, in the slant of a reflection, in the deep chasms behind Elias’s eyes—it was such a mercy upon them all, that mortal guise. Elias heaved an affectated sigh. “I would have appreciated more, however, if you could just have refrained from dispatching Ms. Perry.” 

Jon let out a noiseless breath. There was a slight sense of release, to have the forbidden named, to have it turned this way and that in the light. 

“Jonathan Sims. Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.” Basira began.

Jon turned to her with a heaviness that sank down to his bones. “Yes, Basira.”

Her lips twitched in what was not pity—no, Basira did not have that within her in even the smallest share—but was something akin to lament and loathing. “Caretaker of Testaments, Child of the Hunt. You stand trial for the murder of Jude Perry.”

Jon’s gaze sharpened. “Trial?”

“Due to the extent of your services and standing of favour with the Hunt, you shall be granted trial instead of immediate execution.” Elias intoned, almost dispassionate. Almost—if not for the keen light in his eyes, the one thing he could not school. In the Institute, in the temple of Beholding, there was no such thing as an inscrutable eye. But what good did that do him if he couldn’t tell what verdict Elias was hoping for, what cards he kept close to his chest?

Jon returned his gaze to Basira, waiting for the case to be brought against him. 

She stepped back.

Agnes stepped forward.

“Agnes?” Martin murmured. 

Jon stared at the young Phoenix in confusion, looking between her, Basira, Elias, and back again. 

“As Priestess of the Cult of the Lightless Flame, Herald of the Desolation, I claim my right to bear judgment.” Agnes said, clasping her silk-gloved hands before her. 

“You’re the—you’re the head of the?” Jon stumbled. 

Agnes assessed him with a cold look that declared him lacking. “Yes. I’ve been discreet until this moment because I desired no special treatment, to exert no undue influence in this house of commons.” There was the barest curve to her lips. “But then you had to muck things up, didn’t you, Archivist?” 

“I—”

“Silence.” Agnes stripped off her usual veneer of gentility. “You’ve cost me much in the loss of Jude Perry. She was favoured, despite her straying from the path. Do you know what you’ve stolen from the Desolation through her blood and bones? What we could have used her dying light to feed?” She made a disgusted noise. “And now all of it is ground into a carpet like it was spilt from an ash tray.”

“I didn’t realize—” Jon tried again. He hadn’t, truly. He hadn’t had a single stray thought for the implications of what he’d done other than the satisfaction of him and only him being the one to claw that damnable woman out of existence. 

“Of course you didn’t.” Agnes scoffed. “You Hunters never do. All you care about is adrenaline in your veins and blood between your teeth and fear heavy in your belly as you sleep.”

Daisy made a rude noise. Agnes didn’t spare her a glance.

“Agnes. Please.” 

Agnes turned her heavy gaze onto Martin, who had untwined his fingers from Jon’s. He felt the loss immediately, fingers chasing after Martin’s as he stepped out of reach.

“Martin. Don’t.” Jon whispered. He couldn’t bear the thought of bringing him down with him, this man made of light and honey, who did not see passed Jon’s flaws but instead held them in gentle hands, knowing them deeply and not turning away. This man he had wronged, this man who had snuck blossoms into his heart.

Martin looked at Agnes, jaw tilted toward the warm lights overhead, looking like a supplicant pilgrim with his crown of thistle and marigolds. 

“This is not a trial that requires witness.” Her voice was no longer a cold flame but a subdued hearth, warming for Martin. There was a needling in Jon’s chest, and he bit his lip against it, drawing blood. This was not the time to get possessive. No matter the way Martin looked at her imploringly, pulling on the clear thread of intimacy that bound them together. Martin was _his_ , now, his and no other’s, and he would make that thoroughly clear when they made it out of this.

If they made it out of this.

“Speak, then.” Agnes finally sighed. “What words do you have that could wipe the blood from his hands and restore that which he stole?”

“I can’t. He did what he did. There’s no undoing that or disputing that.” Martin took a deep breath. “But. It wasn’t premeditated. He’s had all the time in the world to dedicate himself to Hunting her down, to sating the Claim he has—had—on her. But he restrained himself. He kept himself out of temptation’s way. Is it his fault that he was blindsided by the pull of her mark on him? The one she left in bad faith? Which of us could have defied our natures so deeply by walking away?” Martin shook his head. “Jude was slated for death. She was the one running rampant. Jon just happened to be the one to take her to the End.”

“The Obsidian law exists for a reason, Martin.” Agnes didn’t look moved, exactly, but considering, which was a marked improvement from how she had been looking at Jon. If looks could kill he’d have been six feet under the moment they’d walked in. “We are sacred predators, not humans to be picked clean on a whim.” She raised a staying hand. “Or a slight. There is a court of petitions for a reason. Containment, for a reason. So petty qualms are settled without bringing enmity between Entities in their wholes.” She shook her head. “A scarred hand isn’t worth a license to kill.”

“Do you really think the Hunt will stand for his execution?” Martin asked. “Maybe, if Jon had been unprovoked, maybe, if he had endangered the aims of the Institute, drew the kind of attention we could not recover from. But as stands, he had a Claim under Hunt law, a slight regarded as such that no other Hunter could touch her. That may not sway the Obsidian law, but that will cause a dire rift with relations to the Hunt. Pack does not abandon pack.” 

“We sure as hell don’t.” Daisy growled. Basira frowned.

“You say that the Desolation was robbed of blood and bone. Do you think the Hunt will feel differently when you take of Jon? There is no Lord of the Chase here to bless an execution.”

Jon was struck breathless.

Agnes let out startling, bell-like laughter. “If our kind had lawyers, you would either be the first claimed or the first killed.”

A small smile played at Martin’s lips. There was still tension in every point of his frame, however.

She turned her gaze on Jon, and the stark difference in her regard of him compared to Martin almost made him take a step back, yielding ground. “By our law, I could incinerate you where you stood. Make your body a kiln. Uproot your precious fangs and keep them on my mantle.” She smiled sharply. “But I cede that your sins were also a service. You will be shown mercy.” She made mercy sound like poison. “Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, Caretaker of Testaments, Child of the Hunt. You are found guilty. Your salvation is a week in Isolation.”

Jon stood, numb, as Martin cried out in anguish and gathered him in his arms.

A week.

A week in Isolation. 

He let out a humourless, nigh hysterical chuckle.

Agnes had a cruel kind of mercy. If one was damned to Isolation, their sentence was a day. And almost no one lasted until the end of it.

“Your sentence begins.” Agnes said. “Lukas.”

“What?” Martin cried.

Peter Lukas stepped out of a fog that hadn’t been there until this moment. The edges of him were as wisps, as if he were just a hologram of a man, a suggestion with no foundation. He gestured and the fog unfurled around him, coiling upwards, forming a doorway.

Agnes seized Jon and Martin held on to his other arm.

“No, no, no.” Martin babbled, his composure run ragged.

“It’ll be okay. You’re okay. It’ll be fine.” Jon stroked his hand in a haze, promising sweet nothings. “Let me go, Martin.” 

“Agnes, please.” Martin begged, but Agnes’s empathy had clearly burnt out, reaching the end of its wick. The verdict was made.

Jon did not fight. He let himself be hauled to the doorway that grasped and beckoned with hands of fog, fingers of mist cloying against his flesh. He turned one last desperate gaze on Martin. “I’ll come back to you.”

“You keep your teeth.” Agnes hissed in his ear. “For Martin.” 

She pushed him through the doorway.

xxx

Jon was there, and then Jon wasn’t as if there had never been a Jon at all. He disappeared into the doorway of fog and it collapsed in on itself. Martin didn’t even get the chance to say a proper good-bye, didn’t get a glance at whatever lay on the other side of the wisp of a portal.

Martin collapsed to his knees, barely registering the pain of the hard floor.

Agnes looked down at him with pity. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but that was mercy, Martin.”

He looked up at her through eyelashes weighted with hot tears. “That was a slow death compared to a quick one.” There were endless stories about Isolation circulating the Institute. From the records of the few, few survivors, they said the stories were too gentle, and none of their experiences were the same. 

Most condemned to Isolation had to have their bodies retrieved by Peter or one of his fellow Wraiths. 

Agnes made as if to rest a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged away. Her expression was wistful as she walked back to where Elias and Basira stood.

“Daisy—you should take the day off. Go home. Cool down.” Basira said evenly.

“Cool down? I can’t just take a shower like I’ve completed football practice, Basira! You just threw my best friend into the jaws of Isolation, I may never see him again.” Daisy’s frame was trembling slightly, an agitated hum. Her claws slipped out of her nailbeds, veins the colour of dried blood standing out against her golden skin, spreading like a poison.

“Daisy.” Martin said numbly. 

She tilted her chin towards him, head cocked, but her gaze stayed on her opponents.

“Leave it.” Martin said, rising feebly to his feet, as if he had aged rapidly, as if the entire weight of the Vast rested on his shoulders, bending him back toward the earth. “He’s gone. There’s nothing we can do.”

“I can think of several colourful things we can do.” Daisy countered, lips baring in a silent snarl.

“Please.” Martin said, oh so soft.

Daisy looked at him then, frowning. She went to his side, hand curling around his upper arm, claws digging in lightly. “Fine. For your sake. Let’s go.”

No one tried to stop them. They didn’t offer empty words. Basira, Agnes, and Elias just watched as they went. 

“I don’t—it doesn’t feel right to just go home.” Martin said on the Institute steps.

“Don’t then.” Daisy was glaring at the closed doors.

“I don’t know what else to do with myself.” Martin confessed, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

“Come home with me.” Daisy finally tore her heavy gaze from the building.

“What?”

“I said, come home with me.” Daisy repeated. “Back to the pack. You were right in there. London’s Lord of the Chase should have been consulted before any proceedings. We should go inform them. And you’ll be safe there.”

“Safe..? From what?” Was he in some danger he didn’t know about? 

“From anything that thinks it can take more from me.” 

Martin didn’t know what to say to that so he said nothing at all. 

“While I’m thinking of it.” Daisy turned to face him fully. “I’m going to mark you.”

“Mark me?” 

“Claim you as mine before the Hunt. My territory.” 

“Are you—Daisy, I’m not going to let you _piss_ on me.” Martin squeaked, mortified.

Daisy let out a bewildered laugh. “Oh my god. Once Jon’s sentence is up I can’t wait to tell him you said that. Do you really not know what the mark of a Hunter is?”

“Like—like Jon’s claim on Jude? Does that mean only you can—hunt me?” Martin shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“No. Well, yes, actually. But primarily it serves as a designation that you are my territory and under my protection. That you have the cloak of the Hunt upon you. So no Hunter can pursue you unless you break the pact by harming them. No one in the pack will harm you, and they even have an obligation to come to your aid if you are being attacked in front of them.” 

“So I’m—it’s like I’d be a ward? Of the Hunt?” Martin didn’t know how he felt about Daisy considering him territory, like he was a piece of land she was particularly fond of.

“That’s a good way to put it, yes, I like that. You are not of the Hunt, but you have a seat at our table.” Daisy extended one of her palms out to him, drawing a thin line, flesh parting easily under her claws. Blood welled up, a hint at first, that spilled over, finding haven in her lifelines. “You can either consume my blood, or merge our blood by pressing your own cut palm to mine. Or. I can piss on you.” She grinned a sharp, cheeky grin. “Whatever you prefer.”

“Huh. I, um—let’s go with pressing our palms. Yeah.” Martin nodded to himself. He extended a thorn from one hand, using it to draw a matching line in his palm, thin and ragged with the imprecision of the barb.

As their palms were about to meet, just hovering—Martin could feel the ghost of her palm—Daisy paused. “You should know—once we do this, I’ll be able to track you. I won’t have much reason to do so, but, full disclosure and all.”

“That’s acceptable.”

She nodded, and their hands met. A pricking sensation turned into a burning in Martin’s palm that he had to grit his teeth against. It lasted for several seconds then cut off abruptly while in crescendo. When they pulled their palms apart, both lines had healed, fed by each other’s blood and trapped in with a pale line of rapid scarring.

As they fell into an even stride, Martin following her lead, she hummed. “You do know Jon has several claims on you, right?”

“What?” It hadn’t occurred to him before, though when his attention was drawn to it, it made sense given Jon was as subtle as a stick of dynamite going off in your ribcage when it came to how he viewed the Archives as his territory.

“He’s claimed each of you assistants, through one means or another. He’s partaken of your blood and you of his. And now that you’re—involved—I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s left more of a mark on you.” 

“Can he—” Martin gulped. “How does that work? Is this some sort of Renfield situation? Can he—control me somehow?” That was a terrifying idea. He didn’t mind a little dominating here and there, but he certainly did not want to be Jon’s puppet. The very possibility made phantom bugs skitter across his skin. There were so many layers of consent and boundary issues there.

Daisy thought a moment too long for his comfort. “Thrice claimed, his compulsion will have a stronger pull on you. He can enact a summons that you would feel inclined to follow, drawn to him, but that isn’t insurmountable. And you might get—cravings? Let’s go with that, though it sounds dramatic. You might have cravings for his blood in return, but you’re an avatar so there’s no telling how any of this will affect you. I’m working off a mortal model, here.” She tsked. “But Jon’s an honourable bloke, he won’t exert any of that over you unless it’s a life or death situation.”

Martin needed a few business days to process all that so he tucked it into a little pocket in his mind to freak out over later. “What about you? What can hounds do? Will you have—do you have any influence over me now?”

They dipped into the underground, finding the appropriate platform to wait at. 

“Not really, no. You might get a slight increase in some of your senses—sight, smell, hearing. Might become a bit more of a night owl.” She chuckled. “Might want your meat a little rarer.”

He grimaced, thinking about biting into a raw steak, blood sliding down his chin, staining his fingers as he ate it with his hands. The idea of flesh shifting like dough in his hands, smelling unavoidably like life cut short…he gagged.

“But once, again, avatars and mortals don’t react the same way.” 

“Here’s hoping.” Martin mumbled. He was a vegan.

Once they got to Daisy’s pack home—which was a sprawling home outside London proper—several curious hounds greeted them, bounding across the yard. They were regular hounds, good boys and girls, all kinds of hunting dogs. Martin let himself be knocked over and laughed as they piled on. If this was how he went it would be a very good death.

Daisy whistled. “Alright now, you menaces. Get off the nice flower boy.” She hauled Martin to his feet, holding open the door and guiding him deeper into the house. Everything about the place was cosy—warm colours and natural light and soft fabrics. The only thing that disrupted his sense of easy belonging, of communion, was the sheer amount of taxidermy on the walls. All chimeras (lower case), mundane animals made fantastic by merging two or three or more in one piece. They were a colony of Frankenstein’s monsters, beautiful and horrid. Martin forcibly stripped his gaze away from what could best be described as a jackalope-tarantula hybrid, with too many eyes and legs and mandibles that would happily gobble you up.

“This way.” Daisy said, as if Martin would go anywhere that wasn’t with her.

They passed through the largest common room Martin had ever seen, all kinds of seating cobbled together, a huge flatscreen telly, and plenty of table space. The dining room was similarly grand, with a Mad Tea Party’s worth of placings. 

They finally came to a stop before an ornate door at the end of one of the many halls. Daisy rapped her knuckles against the wood.

“Come on in.” A thin, airy voice replied.

At the desk sat a person who looked like they could bench press Martin and deadlift a car. Dense muscles packed every place muscles lived. They were wearing a high-necked, finely beaded crop top and an empire waist skirt that Martin was tall enough to see over the desk. They were a mosaic of contradictions.

“Martin, this is the Lord of the Chase of London, Alister Boroughs. They hold all territory out to the outskirts of London. Your Honour, this is Martin Blackwood, Child of the Buried, twice claimed by the Hunt.”

“Welcome to the den, Martin Blackwood.” They inclined their head gracefully, long ginger hair falling from where it had been captured behind their ear. “We’ll be sure to update your status in our registry.” At his look of surprise, they smiled, a small, elegant, and thoroughly warm thing. “Everyone is responsible for reporting their Marks to me within my territory. All of us can see them on you, of course, but I require a formal record. On occasion, I take it upon myself to dissolve Marks where needed, and paper is so much more convenient than Hunting one of you down myself. Much more pleasant for your lot, too, I imagine.” This time the smile left no room for doubting two rows of teeth with a penchant for parting flesh from bone.

“Your Honour, it pains me that this is not merely a matter of introduction. Jonathan has been taken into custody.”

The Lord hummed to themself, unphased. “Yes, that would explain why I can’t Track him at the moment. Isolation is, it? Damn those Lukas’s for donating their services to manifest that atrocity of an oubliette.”

“His sentence is a whole week.” Where she had seemed so confident before, Daisy wavered. 

“Rather dire, then. What exactly did he do to warrant this? His notice was rather vague.”

“Killed a member of the Desolation’s cult.” 

The Lord sighed. “Well, what’s done is done, I suppose. He isn’t a Hunter worth his salt if he cannot withstand his punishment.” They paused. “Either way, I’ll have to address the diplomatic misstep Elias has made. He was wrong to hide what is mine from me.” The unbothered expression on their face morphed into cold, focused fury.

Martin shivered, knowing this was how it felt to be viewed as a source of meat to consume and blood to slate thirst with.

The Lord’s expression cleared of its lethal intensity. “Little flower, how rude of us. Please show your floral companion to the kitchens and offer him every comfort we have.” They looked at Martin. “You are always welcome in these halls, darling of the Pressing Death. Do remember that we belong to you as you belong to us. And we do not give up easily what we have our claws in.”

Martin trailed behind Daisy as she spoke about tea service and did he like the Archers?

Martin wondered what exactly he’d gotten himself into.

xxx

Jon did not know where he was. Fog shrouded his vision, chilled his skin, poured into his open mouth, nesting in his lungs.

There were pines all around him, twisting and angling impossibly high, piercing an equally impossible sky, not the red of sunset nor the red of dawn, but a mottled, screaming red that dripped stars and was that the Sun and was the Sun always so sharp, rays spiking outward like teeth?

He stumbled forward a few steps, finding his footing on terrain that felt like silt and sand and gravel and mud in turns. He pushed aside branches, welcoming the nettles that pricked his skin, welcoming the return of sensation no matter how unpleasant.

A voice echoed through the woods, coming from its depths in dulcet tones, a beckoning, a soothing. As he drew ever nearer, the voice lanced his memory, a revelry of comfort and pain that he could not reconcile.

He finally became close enough to discern words in the call that came from the centre of the wood.

“Jon! Jon are you out there? Jon, hurry. Jon!”

Jon drew in a harsh breath that burned the mist out of his lungs.

“Martin?”


	23. unsteady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Archival staff adapts without its Archivist and Isolation embraces Jon.
> 
> CWs this chapter: cruelty, blood, gore, eco horror, inability to determine reality, character death, body horror, abandonment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello fair marigolds! I hope the world is treating you right. Thank you as always for reading and supporting this little tale.
> 
> This chapter hurt to write! It will probably get worse before better! I am a hurt/comfort writer and yet am always like why must these characters yearn and endure such hardships :(((. When will I realize I am the root of my problems? Stay tuned to find out but you will probably be waiting Forever!

“I’m kind of insulted that Elias is having both of us be acting Head Archivists until Jon gets back.” Sasha said as she and Martin stared down at the stack of statements and research notes on Jon’s desk. “Like it takes both of us to make one whole archivist.”

“You’re insulted?” Tim sulked from the plush chair in front of Jon’s desk, his legs draped over the arm. “I’m the odd one out. I don’t even get a co-grunt. A grunt on loan. You’re just my joint boss.”

“Well. We do need as many hands on deck as possible to manage you, Tim.” Martin said wryly as he picked up a manila folder and began flipping through it. Elias hadn’t given much oversight as to what exactly they were meant to be doing this week until—Martin refused to think if—Jon came back. Sasha and him had decided to just keep recording statements and pursuing all open cases before deciding what to do next (well, Martin would be recording, anyways—as an avatar of the Spiral Sasha couldn’t record the truths—they’d found out quite quickly the cassettes did not respond to her well nor she to them). 

“I’m unmanageable. I can’t be managed.” Tim sniffed proudly. 

“That’s so true it makes my skin crawl.” Sasha said absently. “Okay, I understand Jon’s filing system now. I can’t believe he’s given Gertrude so much shite over this, his system practically requires a signal fire and a pair of 3D glasses.”

Martin breathed a sigh of relief. “Well I’m glad _you_ figured it out. I’ve just been looking at the same three pages for the last fifteen minutes to seem helpful.”

“Okay.” Sasha pulled out several sheets from each pile and folder. “Tim. Here’s a bunch of records, some need to be verified and some need to be cross-referenced. Once you’re done with those, you can go down and interview this Detective Gloria Marx, as a treat. Martin. Here is a backlog of statements Jon set aside to record. You can also take statements for any set appointments. I can probably handle intake forms. I’ll focus on cataloging all the shut cases and run support.”

Tim raised his hand. “When I go charm Detective Marx can I use the company card to get pastries?”

“Only if you bring some back to share.” Sasha allowed primly. 

They dispersed. Martin shut the office door gently and took the seat behind the desk. Jon’s chair. Jon’s desk. It felt like he was sliding into the outline of a ghost, like he was doing something profane. He tried to shake off the feeling. Jon was coming back. He had to. And it wasn’t healthy or helpful to think of himself as usurping Jon’s reign in the Archives. He was—he was keeping it warm for him. Tending it like a hearth until its one true caretaker came home.

The statement felt heavy in his hand despite only being a few pages long. A cassette obligingly appeared for him, an almost eager aura came off it as it sat, waiting, in front of him. Martin took it with trembling fingers and clicked the recorder on. 

“ _Statement of Radley J. Tucks, regarding a lullaby sung from their garbage disposal_.”

Martin melted into the statement, his senses becoming alive with phantom sensations, the words being unspooled from his lips, his voice taking on a quality of soft creeping static. His fingers clenched around the edge of the desk in an attempt to keep himself grounded, but Beholding demanded full attention when it was being fed.

Martin finally gave himself entirely up to the statement. The sooner it was started the sooner it was finished.

“ _…Statement begins_.”

xxx

“Martin. Martin, how are you here?” Jon reached a hand out toward the other man, to lay his hands on him and feel him whole. But he refrained, scared that in this place he would shatter. 

“Isn’t it obvious, Jon?” Martin asked with an aloof, pitying expression. “I couldn’t let you go, put up a fuss. And Agnes pushed me in after you.”

“No. No.” Jon shook his head. “No, that can’t be—she wouldn’t—you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Martin shrugged. “You were worried you’d drag me down with you. You did.”

“Martin I’m—I’m so sorry, I never meant to—” Jon laboured to breathe. “And—Daisy?”

“Daisy?” Martin’s eyebrows raised. “She was smart enough to abandon you from the get-go, cut her losses.”

No, Daisy would never—they were _pack_. They were deeper than pack, they were supernatural and chosen family alike. “Daisy wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t give up on me.”

“I’m sorry, would you be _happy_ if she didn’t? You think she’d need losing her job and potentially her life on top of losing her best friend. I knew you were selfish, Jon, but _really_.” Martin tsked. 

“Of course I wouldn’t want--! It’s just not like her, is all. It’s not like you either. To be cruel.” Jon said softly, almost a whisper. 

“How like you to turn this on me.” Martin shook his head, lightly jostling the crown of Venus flytraps that snapped animatedly atop his head. “Always running away from your problems. Or shoving them off onto other people. Sorry if I’m a little tired of it by now.” Martin finished with an acidic bite.

“It’s not—look, I know I-I’ve botched things up,”—Martin scoffed--,”but we can make it out of this, together. You and me versus the Isolation.”

“No.” Martin mused. “No, I think I’m done being tethered to a sinking ship.” 

Jon’s organs curdled inside him, reduced to sickening rot. This wasn’t right, Elias and Basira would never allow Agnes to punish Martin for Jon’s crime, Daisy wouldn’t have just walked away without a fight, Martin wouldn’t—his rotten heart clenched—be like this, never like this, not even when he was mad at him. It had taken an Entity possessing Martin before he had even raised his voice to him, let alone lifted a finger against him. This was a trick, this was Isolation sanding him raw—

Martin sighed in a mirthless chuckle. “How do you manage it, Jon?”

“Manage what?” Jon wrapped his arms around himself, claws piercing through the thick weave of Martin’s jumper—another thing to ruin for him.

“To somehow be too much and never enough.” 

The words struck him, the sensation so visceral he took a step back as if Martin had hit him. “Martin, I—I’m so sorry. I know I can’t make it up, but please let me at least do everything I can to protect you here. To get you home.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “You should probably worry about yourself.” He turned on his heel and made for the edge of the clearing. He paused midstride, looking back. “I really loved you, you know.” 

He disappeared from view, leaving Jon alone.

“Wait! Martin! Martin, come back!” He shouted. He broke through the border of the clearing. It had only been moments, but Martin was nowhere in sight. No crushed debris on the forest floor lit his path like a beacon. Even with the low hum of the forest, Jon couldn’t hear any indication of Martin’s passage. Jon sank against the trunk of the nearest tree, holding his head in his hands as he tried to still his racing heart. “Don’t leave me by myself…”

There was suddenly the sharp scent of wool and freshly turned earth, of bergamot and spice. 

_He’s still here. Still nearby._

Jon took in and held onto the scent like a lifeline, dissolving into his Hunt form, eyes seeing new depths, seeing new colours, seeing the faint line of scent strung like a garland through the close trees. He could see the ghost of his Mark on Martin, the taste of the Hunt as well as something exclusively of Jon himself. He barreled through the woods, sinking into his predator instincts, despair forgotten as he narrowed his focus onto finding his love, of guarding him in his shadow if not by his side.

Jon didn’t stop for anything. He didn’t pause for the whispers beckoning him to rest awhile among the mushrooms, the horned rabbits bounding in tempting paths, begging to be devoured and rent to pieces, gore sunk into his teeth and the earth. He lost himself to the feel of his bare feet pricked by nettles—he idly wondered when he lost his shoes--, the woodland air entering his lungs with an exquisite crispness, of his blood mingling with the sound of his quarry’s blood in his ears, a harmony that promised fulfillment, refuge, decadence, death. 

When he finally caught sight of his prey, his body shuddered with anticipation. It took almost no effort to pin it into the ground, to brace his hands on the creature’s chest as he mused whether to crack open its ribs and hold its still-beating heart in his palm like buried treasure, or to tear it strip by strip into a raw work of art. He was feeling poetic, in the mood for something inspired. A simple torn throat would not suffice.

“It was always going to end this way, wasn’t it?” His prey asked, a bemused smile running across its lips. How dare it. Did it not know its life was forfeit, that Jon held it in his palms and was testing the cracks, seeing how far he could stretch its agony out? “At the end of the day, you’re just a beast. A bloody animal.”

Jon growled, bared his teeth made for trapping and tearing. He ripped out the prey’s throat, bathing his face in the spurt of blood. A classic torn throat would do, after all. The prey burbled as its life bled out around it, a shallow pool of crimson spilling over onto the ground. Jon swallowed it down, fingers painted with it. 

“Such a beautiful monster.” The man gurgled, speaking through wet noises. “I mean, just _look_ at you, Jon.” 

Jon. 

That was his name, wasn’t it? He had a name because he was _not_ just a beast he was a man beneath the fangs and claws and reveling. His gaze focused on his dying quarry. 

“Martin.” He gasped. “No. No, no, no, no, no.” 

He pressed his hands into his boyfriend’s throat, futilely trying to stymie the flow. 

Martin’s mouth ticked up in a horrible smile, his words becoming harsher as his voice ran out. “Just look at you.” His eyes glazed over, that terrible smile frozen on his face. 

“No, no. I can—I can fix you it will be fine you’ll be fine.” Hot tears tracked down his cheeks as Jon savagely tore at the flesh of his wrist, freeing a stream of blood that he pressed against Martin’s mouth. He could do this he could fix him he could make him breathe he could make him right.

Martin’s Venus flytraps wilted, corpses weighing toward the ground, turning black and brittle. Jon cusped his face and clay sloughed off onto his fingers, the pressure of his caress warping his face, the clay beginning to drip between his fingers, to runnel down his forearms and into the waiting soil. 

As his body began to collapse in on itself, to return to the Buried, a doll of mud and flora, Jon was forced to acknowledge Martin was not alright. He could not fix him. He would not breathe. 

Jon screamed.

He railed against the still forest, lungs burning before he was through. He gathered Martin up, sobbing as he tried to hold him together and still funneled through his arms and into the earth. Jon pressed a kiss into his forehead, clay smearing across his mouth. He forced himself to watch as Martin dissolved, as he stopped looking like a human and started looking like a skeleton made of twigs and bone, as the ferns in his chest cavity furled in on themselves and the flowers in his ribcage withered and leaked through as blackened juice. Eventually even his bones were reclaimed by the ground. A flowerbed of choking vines and barbs grew around him. Flies crawled among the desiccated flora, the stiff petals and sludge. Jon choked against the intensity of the rot and ruin. 

He lay down in the middle of the briar patch, welcoming the biting thorns into his skin. He curled up in a fetal position, cheek cushioned by grey moss. He sunk a hand into the earth, brutally pushing passed the web of barbs. A slug made its slow passage across his forearm, trekking through the still-wet gore. 

Jon laid there, holding his love the only way he knew how.

xxx

After the fifth statement, Martin needed to take a break. He didn’t know how Jon did it day in and out—he must have built up a tolerance, or maybe he was just mentally stronger than Martin. Probably both. Martin examined his palms nervously. He had noticed that they had glowed with bright eyes as he spoke, a cluster of witnesses to soak up the testimonials he offered up as a feast. He let out a held breath once he confirmed they were gone. Every time he read a statement, he felt the Watcher perched between his shoulder blades, pressing on him, nourishing him in its way, feeding him little bits of Knowledge. 

There was a brief rap on the door and Tim walked in without waiting for a response. “Heard a break in recordings. You’ve been at it all day, thought you could use a pick me up.” He proffered a mug of tea, a novelty thing Martin had brought from home. It had a koala on it holding its own mug with the caption “now _that’s_ koala-tea.” 

“Thanks, Tim.” Martin offered him a feeble smile. It felt wrong to be on the other end of the mug, taking Jon’s place as Tim set the mug on the corner of the desk, away from the stacks of papers and loose cassettes.

“Let me know if you need anything else, alright?” Tim said. “Anything at all. I’m just at my desk watching hours of security footage, I would in fact _adore_ it if you needed something. Seriously. This is like, the worst movie of my life. And I saw _Eragon_. In theatres.” 

“I’ll let you know.” Martin promised. 

Tim hovered on the threshold. Opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped. “He’ll come back. He isn’t one to let some frothy mist dimension kick his arse.” He closed the door behind him.

Martin rested his head in his hands, looking at the statement on the desk but not seeing it. He pulled himself as together as he could get, nursing the still-piping tea in his hands. It was too hot to drink so he just let it simmer on his vulnerable flesh. He needed something to chase away the numbness, no matter how it coaxed and promised if not comfort, reprieve.

xxx

Jon did not know how long he laid there on the putrid ground that was all that was left of Martin. He laid until he couldn’t feel his body anymore. The sky was no help as a timepiece, it remained that churning, shouting bloodred. He was to be subjected to Isolation for a whole week and for all he knew it would feel like years. It was only a matter of time until he ran out of energy and started to lose his motor abilities and basic functions as the time between drinking blood stretched on. 

He was starting to truly understand the nefarious nature of Isolation. There was no measure of time or reality. Had Martin really died, or a cheap imitation? There was the weeping of his heart regardless. He had said such nasty, true things. 

Jon wondered if he could pass the week like this—just nestled into the closest thing to Martin he had, like a security blanket dragged through hell and back. He could wither away, too, become a husk waiting to be harvested. 

“Well isn’t this a pitiful scene.” 

Jon’s gaze snapped into focus. Daisy walked through a grouping of trees, coming to a stop several yards away. “Daisy.”

“You look dreadful.” Daisy sat back on her haunches, claws drawing shapes in the litter on the ground. 

“You’re not—you’re not really here. Not really Daisy.” He dragged himself into a sitting position, unwilling to let himself be any kind of vulnerable in this damned forest.

“So what if I’m not?” Daisy asked, not looking up from her work. “Will it hurt less when I rip your face from your skull?”

Jon shuddered. “You won’t. You can’t.”

“Why not? Because I love you?” She looked up then. “Love for you only runs so deep. Each of your flaws chip away at it until you make someone realise—they never really loved you at all. They pitied you.”

“Stop.” Jon said, voice hoarse.

“Poor Jonathan Sims, weakest child of the Hunt, always chasing the next high, thinking you’re running toward something fresh and worthwhile when all you’re actually doing is running away from everything else that makes up your little life.”

“ _Stop_.”

Daisy stopped drawing in the ground. She leaned forward until she was practically perched on all fours. “The Lord sent me to hunt you, Jonathan. They were so angry when they found out you were stuffed in here. Furious that they didn’t cut your weakness out of the food chain.”

There was no way the Lord of the Chase would abandon him, not like this. They wouldn’t send Daisy instead of coming themself, wouldn’t cast the duty off like he wasn’t worth their time. They wouldn’t. 

Right?

“I suggest you start running, Jon.” 

“I don’t—we don’t need to do this, Daisy.” He loathed the pleading in his voice.

“I want to do this, Jon. You used to be so bright, you know? A burning star.” Daisy bared her teeth and several mouths opened down her neck, half human and half hound. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

Jon got to his feet. He didn’t want to fight Daisy, to hurt her. If they drew blood, he knew Daisy wouldn’t stop. She didn’t have the best control. She didn’t _want_ control.

Her claws elongated, her body started to twist in on itself into a new and horrible shape.

“ _Run, Jon_.”

He ran.


	24. the threads that hold us up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon faces yet more personal torments.
> 
> CWs this chapter: verbal cruelty, emotional manipulation, body horror, eco horror, eating disorder symptoms but not in an eating disorder context, arachnids, bloodthirst, starvation.
> 
> If you wish to avoid this graphic content, there is a detailed summary at the end of the chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello! Thank you for joining me again on this terrible ride. Your theories, comments, encouragement, and general distress are appreciated haha. I swear there will be nice things. I'm thinking of letting the Archives have a party, as a treat. Baked goods and +3 serotonin for everybody involved. 
> 
> This was! Yet again! A very hard chapter to write. I'm like hmmm I want this to be diverse and visceral in its horrors, but also psychologically driven. And Isolation is meant to break people, y'know. But like,, isn't that every day of Jonathan's life anyways.

The forest floor tore Jon’s soles bloody, but he ran through the pain. 

There was no time to coddle himself. He was faster than Daisy, but not by much, and she had the advantage of paws buffered from the litter that slowed him down. It was always a mistake when prey cast looks over their shoulders, when they gave up their precious seconds that determined whether they lived or died.

Jon was not prey.

He pushed himself harder, muscles burning with exertion. If Daisy caught him, only one of them would come out alive. He didn’t want to fight her, but it wasn’t in his nature to lie down and wait for the strike. 

He came to a gate. He hadn’t noticed the landscape shifting around him, rolling into the grounds of a grand manor that stood starkly against the bloodred sky. He thought it might be night now, with the pinpricks of stars and a crescent moon perched above. He immediately started on scaling the wrought iron gate. It wasn’t the type of thing that could protect him and Daisy from each other, but it would give him a moment of pause.

As soon as he was on the other side of the fence, Daisy barreled into it, the force of it causing the gate to quake. Her many eyes glowed like hot coals in their sockets, the wisps coiling off her tail and paws twitching. She paced in front of the rusted gate, saliva dripping from her maws, lips bared over blackened gums. 

She cast him a scathing look that scoured his heart.

Then she left, trotting back into the copse of trees.

“What the hell…” Jon murmured to himself, long fingers pressed against his chest as if manually holding his heart in place. Daisy did not turn her back on a hunt. She did not give up until her quarry stained her teeth or she became a lifeless heft of meat. Jon waited several long minutes, wondering if she was scouting the perimeter for an easier way in. But she could have just shifted and scaled the fence in mortal form. She was lethal in either skin. 

She didn’t return. 

Jon sank against the gate, his breathing finally back to normal. 

_Knock. Knock._

Jon’s head snapped up, gaze sharpening on the manor in the distance. 

_Knock knock._

Jon fell into the rhythm against his will, drawn forward as if by gossamer thread, steps and heartbeat in time. 

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Jon stood on the edge of the porch, pinned in place like a butterfly behind glass.

“ _Who is it, Mr. Spider_?” Jon intoned, the Archivist pulled from his throat. Static built up in his head until it was a crescendo of buzzing. “ _It’s Mr. Bluebottle, and he’s brought you a cake_.”

“ _Mr. Spider doesn’t like it_.”

Jon was gagging, hands clasped around his throat as he retched on the stoop. Globs of pale green frosting arced onto the stone, leaving him shaking. The stuff got everywhere, on his hands, spilling down his front. 

_Knock. Knock._

“ _W-who is it, Mr. Spider_?” The words were ripped out now, leaving his throat feeling raw. “ _It’s Mrs. Fruit and she brought you some flowers._ ”

“ _Mr. Spider doesn’t eat flowers._ ”

He was choking, ramming his fingers down his throat to dislodge the bitter obstructions. He pulled out flower after flower, all sickly yellows and muddy reds and the blue of hypothermia. He held them in his hands, staring in horror as the petals burned his skin. They fell to the stoop, sinking into the noxious frosting.   
Ink began to spill from under the door, a brown so deep it was almost black, leaking in meandering rivulets that felt intelligent, like the feelers of some greater being. 

_Knock…knock…knock._

“ _Oh, it’s Mr. Horse, and he’s brought you his son_.” Tears weaved down his face. “ _Mr. Spider wants more_.”

Jon felt the gossamer webs pulling him now from every joint, felt them lace through his eyelashes, taper down his mouth. 

“ _Mr. Spider wants another guest for dinner_.” Jon fought with every ounce of his considerable strength, but it was futile. He drew closer to the door, hand raising against his will, curling into a fist. 

“ _It is polite to knock_.”

_Knock……knock……..knock_.

The door creaked open. Ink flooded the doorway now, and Jon could see the crimson accents in its depths. Spindly shadows arched and bent, miming weaving, and as they worked, the phantom threads pulled tighter and tighter on him until he was sure his joints would pop out of place. 

A large face inched into the light, that damned red bowler perched atop, mandibles audibly clicking even though they could not be seen. 

“Hello, Jonathan.”

He peered up at his grandmother.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.” The voice was—the voice was almost right, but there was an underlay of bass to it, as if her voice was an accessory. “My, look how you’ve grown.” 

Jon was struck silent with fear. He couldn’t have run if he’d wanted to. But he couldn’t have fought, either—his claws dug into his forearms as he trembled in place.  
“Aren’t you happy to see me, Jonathan?” She asked, her right cheek sagging not with age, but as if it had become unmoored from the rest of her.

He tried to speak then, but the words were all dried up.

His grandmother broke into a wide grin, too wide for her face to contain, causing it to slough away, peeling like paint until it dislodged entirely, falling into the mess on the stoop with a muted slap. Jon had braced himself for what lay beneath—for slick muscle and loose cartilage. 

He had not been prepared for Georgie. 

This face was a more ill fit, like a painting just off centre, causing her expressions to move in alien ways. 

“Is this better?” She asked, smiling. “I do so want you to be _comfortable_. I am your host, after all.” 

Mr. Spider—and Jon knew it to be him clicking and amused beneath the false faces—reached out with his many legs, curling around him in a possessive embrace. “Shall we sit down to tea?” He asked idly as he clutched Jon closer. 

He broke out of his stupor, ragged cries stripped from him as he tore at the arachnid with his claws. Mr. Spider recoiled with the hiss of a chorus of tarantulas.

“That. Is. _Not_. Polite.” 

Jon stumbled down the steps, but a sharp yank on the threads around his legs caused him to hit the ground hard. Mr. Spider began to reel him backward as he kicked and struck behind him with no precision, just blank terror. He dug his hands into the earth to the side of the path. They scraped for purchase as he was dragged back calmly. 

“What a naughty guest.” Mr. Spider tsked. “I suppose an etiquette lesson is in order.”

Jon breached the threshold into the fathomless darkness. 

He was in Mr. Spider’s home.

His eyes could not fully process what he was seeing. The manor was infinitely smaller on the inside than the outside. It was flattened, two dimensional, like an animated drawing stuck to the fridge. 

Like a children’s storybook.

Crudely drawn—woven?—webs crisscrossed and adorned every corner of the room. A slanted table was in the centre of the room, with four chairs.

Two of them were occupied.

“Now that all the guests are here, we may pour the tea.” Mr. Spider propped him up on one of the empty chairs, quickly spinning his wrists together as he whistled. 

“You might take a note or two. The others are much better behaved.”

Jon turned to look at his fellow prisoners with a sense of mounting trepidation.

They were nigh cocooned in spider’s silk, so dense around their faces that he couldn’t make out any features. Their wrists were naked, propped impossibly against the cartoonish table. Their fingers were limp around the handles of porcelain cups. He wouldn’t have known them from strangers if one of them didn’t have dreadfully long fingers and impossible joints.

He was too hoarse to cry out.

Sasha and Tim were motionless as Mr. Spider served them tea.

“How do you take yours, again, Jonathan?” Mr. Spider hummed as he made his rounds. “Doesn’t matter anyways, I suppose. You shan’t be drinking it.” He placed Jon’s cup in front of him, its bottom sinking into the pale green icing that was smeared across the tablecloth. Mr. Spider tilted the tea pot—decorated with a scrawl of a daisy—and filled his cup.

Tiny spiders filled it to the brim. 

They immediately started to scuttle back over the lip, forming a winding path toward him. He let out a muffled noise as panic screamed brightly in his skull. 

“I’m so glad we were all able to make it. Fellowship is so important.” Mr. Spider said cheerfully, his voice crisp and low and terrible coming from Georgie’s misshapen mouth. “Hm? Oh, yes. Forgive me while I slip into something more comfortable.” He grasped the edge of Georgie’s face and rolled it up like a map, revealing something so incomprehensible and unholy that Jon wished he would put her face back on. Mr. Spider fed it into his monstrous mandibles until there was nothing left but himself, dripping ink from his myriad glossy, opaque eyes. He released a satisfied sigh. “Ah, yes. Much better. Now.” He pressed his legs together. “We dine.”

_It's Mr. Sims. He’s brought his friends and his body._

_Mr. Spider_ loves _it._

_He lets no part go to waste._

One moment, Jon’s organs were liquefying. The next, he was in someplace so very cold, and so very dark.

Beholding forced Knowledge into his mind.

He was inside Mr. Spider. 

Inside, Mr. Spider was vast, so vast he stretched further than Jon could comprehend. There was such a potent absence of light that Jon felt the need to shut his eyes against it. He was not sure how he managed it, seeing as he could not feel his body. He was without a tether, aimless and immutable. The only thing that broke the obsidian dark was a thrumming as Mr. Spider hummed. Jon knew he spun his web further and denser. He heard the door knock. He heard the screams.

It was the starvation that brought him, finally, back into his body. He curled in on himself, knees tucked to his chest as he waned. He shivered, and when that became too much, he was still as a headstone. He felt himself wither gradually, his skin becoming tighter against his bones, muscles atrophying, mind running slower and slower until it was the crawl of an egg yolk across a pan. He waited for blissful nothingness, to unbecome, to unravel until he was the suggestion of a man, petrified and unfeeling.

It never came.

Time stretched on—there was no time in this place to begin with, and he felt like weeks passed, though he was scared it was merely minutes, and he had so much longer to go. He missed the bloodred sky. He missed the forest under his feet when his mind was numb with the joy of the hunt instead of the soft agony of being abandoned and unmade in the mausoleum of Mr. Spider. 

He missed Martin.

_Martin._

Yes, Martin—it came back to him in a rush, the feeling of warmth and safety and a different kind of softness, the softness of being Seen without Beholding, the softness of being laid bare and claimed for every inch of one’s being.

It was almost impossible to focus, but he poured everything he had into remembering the planes of his boyfriend’s face—his _boyfriend_!—the way his cheeks heated his freckles when he was flummoxed and oh, how often he was flummoxed. He remembered the cups of tea on the edge of his desk, half of them gone cold by the time he pulled himself out of a statement or some other task. He remembered carrying Martin to the infirmary after the other man had tried to smother him with the Buried, the things he’d had to do to get Tim to delete the picture of him maneuvering Martin’s big frame. He remembered the press of lips against his forehead, of Martin’s wrist pressed to his mouth, of the tender pink of Martin’s nose when he’d made it anew. He remembered the bite of bookshelves at his back, hips gravitating towards him like a moth to a candle. He remembered his own name sighed against his mouth. He remembered honey smoothed into his wounds, flowers strung like fairy lights between fingers, the sight of his best friend tucked into Martin’s side, his arm slung over her hell hound body on the narrow cot. 

There was nothing left of him but remembering.

He gave himself up to it. Nothing else mattered except the images pressed like flowers in his mind. 

He was almost sure he was finally, finally going to be granted the mercy of fading away when a pair of strong hands hoisted him up.

“Well, hello, Archivist. I must say, I didn’t think you would make it.” The man’s timbre was low and full. He felt like he knew it from somewhere, but there was no space left in his memory. “What a pleasant surprise.” 

He was being carried; he knew that much. The scent of saltwater burned his overtaxed lungs. His skin grew damp from the fog settling on his skin. 

He was carried into a bright light. He kept his eyes shut against its searing.

“Jon? _Jon_.”

“Now, now. No need to rush me, Martin.” Jon felt the man’s voice rumble into his own chest.

“Give him to me. Now.”

The man sighed. “As you wish.” 

Jon was transferred over into trembling arms.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” The new man whispered fervently.

“See to it that he makes it to the infirmary if you will.” A third man spoke, velveteen. “He’ll need to take a couple days off to get his bearings. I imagine you’ll want to do the same.”

“’Get his _bearings_!’” The man holding him exclaimed, voice going a bit shrill. “He doesn’t have _jet lag_ , Elias.”

The third man sighed, sounding put upon. “Yes, I’m aware he was not on a destination vacation. Regardless, he’ll need to feed and regain his strength and moor himself back into reality.”

“I’m not taking him to the bloody infirmary. He’s not staying another second in this godforsaken place.”

“Very well. See to it that he makes it home safely, then.” 

“Be kind of you to pick him up some ginger ale.” The first man chimed in.

“Peter. If it did not require putting Jon down, I would literally extract your spine right now.”

“Well that’s rather hostile.”

“Your services are through here, Peter, thank you.” The third man said. 

“Everyone here is so impolite.” Jon shuddered in the man’s arms as the first man spoke. “Absolutely no temptation to leave the Lonely.” Footsteps bled away. 

“Mr. Blackwood—”

“Fuck off, Elias.” 

There was a beat of silence that even Jon in his incapacitated state could tell was dangerous. 

“I will allow that, as your emotions are running quite high, and this is a rather distressing situation for you, to be sure.” The third man, apparently Elias, said calmly. “I will allow it, this once. But in the future I suggest you tread much more lightly, Mr. Blackwood. Out of consideration for your wellbeing.”

Another heavy silence lengthened until the man holding Jon turned on his heel and began to walk. He should do something about the situation, but he didn’t know what, and seeing as how he could barely lift a finger, it did not seem likely he would accomplish whatever he should do. There was a bit of an odd jostling as the man worked at a door and they stepped out into the world. The man cradling him in his arms stopped at the bottom of a set of stairs.

“Your place or mine, Jon?” 

“Where—who?” He said, words barely discernible through his parched throat.

“Oh, Jon. Do you know who I am?” The man sat on the bottom step, holding Jon in his lap. A thumb began to stroke across his cheek in short, light caresses. “It’s me. It’s Martin. I don’t know—I don’t know what it’s like, leaving Isolation, what’s going on in your head right now, but I’m someone who cares about you and I’m going to keep you safe, okay?”

Martin…the dregs of his exhausted mind sparked. Martin. _Martin_.

“Martin.” He breathed. 

“Do you--? Yes, it’s me.” Martin’s voice surged with excitement. 

“You were—dead.” He croaked.

“…..Dead? No, I’m here, Jon, I’m fine.”

He was too dehydrated to cry. Too weak to clutch. 

“Yours.” He finally managed.

“My--? Oh, my flat, then? Alright, yeah, perfect. Let me just—I’ll just get a cab for us, hm? You’re in no condition to ride the tube right now. All that jostling, all those people.”

People, so many people all crammed together. No one would ever notice the crowd being one person less. He was too spent to work up a savagery for the hunt, but that didn’t make the need less.

“Just hold on, okay?” Martin said. “Just hold on for me. We’ll get you taken care of, alright? We’ll get you fixed right up.”

The words brought forward the cloying sensation of blossoms rotting in his palms, of barbs driven into his flesh, of trying desperately to follow Martin into the ground, to gather him up. 

Yes. His place.

Jon wanted to be surrounded by everything that was Martin.

He was dimly aware of being lifted, of Martin ducking and then sitting beside him, of his head resting in his lap, of the traffic around them. 

He fell asleep to the lullaby of the driver swearing, the steady noises of the cab, Martin’s indecipherable murmurs, and fingers carding through his hair, petting him as if he was beloved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Jon finishes out his sentence in Isolation, ending with a visit to Mr. Spider. Peter retrieves him. He is mentally in a bad way and essentially starved due to a week without food, water, or blood. There is tension between Elias and Martin. Martin tells him to fuck off and we are proud. Martin takes Jon back to his flat. 
> 
> Comment to let me know how many blankets Jon deserves next chapter and what should give him his due +1 serotonin. <3


	25. any home a haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon recovers in the refuge of Martin's flat.
> 
> CWs this chapter: revisiting trauma, bloodlust, consumption of blood, physical illness, body horror, minor nudity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello you resplendent daffodils! As always, thank you for joining me on this wandering journey. I have been trying to post this chapter for! Three! Days!....And keep falling asleep before doing so every time RIP RIP. This was an xtra cathartic one, to create a little softness in this rather harsh world. Speaking of which, I hope you are well and taking care of yourselves. We are, all of us, owed some tenderness.
> 
> Re: this chapter: We adore aftercare in this household. We also adore these dumb beautiful chaotic characters. If I could give them Christmas presents they would be therapy, an all-expense paid trip to the destination of their choice, and common sense.

Martin ended up having to open the door to his flat with a vine curled around his keys in order to maintain his bridal carry with Jon. He kicked the door shut behind them and immediately regretted it when Jon flinched. 

“Sorry, sorry.” He murmured. Jon tucked himself further into Martin and his heart clenched. Jon was supposed to be both an immovable object and an unstoppable force. He might sleep once a century and _look_ like a light wind could knock him on his arse, but he was supposed to be iron under misleading flesh. He was not supposed to look breakable.

He was not supposed to look broken.

Martin deposited Jon achingly gently on his sofa and Jon curled up like a little roly-poly. His deep brown skin had a sickly pallor to it. Martin moved to get a blanket from the small linen closet but he didn’t make it to the second step before Jon’s hand snapped out and caught his wrist.

“Don’t go. Please.” He croaked.

“I’m not going anywhere. Promise. Just fetching you a blanket s’all.” When Jon didn’t seem likely to let go, Martin bent down to press a kiss into his forehead. Jon shuddered, his hand falling away. 

Martin returned as quickly as possible. He folded a multicoloured quilt around Jon, forming a little cocoon. The quilt was one of the few sentimental things he owned, a cacophony of all his childhood shirts—from the play he was in in primary (he was the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz), to his ill-fated stint on a football team (he was too rough for the other boys). His mother had presented it to him as a graduation gift. He’d thought of it as a time capsule of their best memories together, before he began to look too much like his father to form new good memories.

“Cold.” Jon said.

“Still? Let me get you another blanket—”

“No, stay.” Jon cut him off. “Be my…warmth.” It seemed like he was struggling to say much of anything, which was alarming. After a minute, the obvious punched him in the gut. _Of course_ Jon was freezing and sluggish. He’d been starved for a week.

“Oh, Jon. I’m so sorry—I should have thought of it first thing—you need to feed.” Martin delicately shifted Jon so his head rested in his lap, his loose, knotted hair fanning out. “Here, drink up.” Martin moved to proffer his wrist, holding it in front of Jon’s face. Jon turned his head resolutely away in what almost seemed like panic.

“No. Can’t…hurt you again.” He managed.

“Hurt me? You’ve always been careful with me when you’ve taken my blood.” Martin’s brow creased. “Jon, you need this.”

Jon shook his head minutely. “Won’t.”

“If you don’t drink, you’re just going to desiccate, and I’m not trying to date King Tut.” Martin insisted. “I’m not comfortable with leaving you to get some from your flat and it’s not like anyone _delivers_ —well, actually, I could order some takeout and then you could eat—no! I’m not feeding you a delivery person.” Martin shook his head. Christ, he really was willing to go to lengths for this fun-size vampire. 

“Georgie.”

“What? You want me to get her to be a donor?” Now that he thought about it, he did have a decent list of people who would likely contribute to the cause—Georgie, Tim, Daisy. Sasha would be delighted to in any other circumstances but even she with her chaotic Spiral nature wouldn’t feed white noise to Jon in this state. 

“She’s got—spares. At her flat.” Jon practically wheezed. Martin ran a hand lightly through his hair. “For when I—stay over.”

“Oh. Well. Alright, then, let me text her.” Martin finagled his cell out of his front pocket, hastily composing a text. Not even a few minutes later, he got an incoming call from Georgie. “Hey Georgie—”

“Jon’s back? Jon’s out—he survived Isolation?” There was a manic edge to her relief.

“Fuck. Sorry, Georgie, I didn’t even think to—we only just got back from the Institute. He’s in a, um, bad way.”

“I imagine.” Her tone turned dark as an eclipse. “Elias and the rest are lucky I’ve got oaths keeping me from reaping them.”

“Believe me, we’re on the same page. Same sentence.” Martin assured her. “For now, though—Jon really needs to eat and he won’t take blood from me. Said you have a cache at your place? Are you able to bring some over?”

“He won’t eat--? Sure. Yeah, of course. Text me the address, I’ll be there as soon as possible.” She paused. “Can I—can I speak to him?”

Martin glanced down at Jon and he nodded almost imperceptibly. Jon was too weak to hold the phone himself so Martin held it near the side of his head.

“Hey Georgie.” He said in a harsh whisper. 

“Oh, god. Jon. Hello dearest. I’d ask how you’re doing but the answer is worse than absolute shite, huh?”

“Remember in—uni? The Tequila Apocalypse?”

“Unforgettable. I almost sic’d a priest on you, that was some Exorcist level vomiting.”

“That. Plus every—trauma—since. At once.” 

Georgie breathed a pained sigh. “Hold on. I’m on my way.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, you dumb vampire.”

When Martin hung up, he cranked out a mass text then tossed the phone onto the low coffee table and gave his full attention to his deeply fucked up boyfriend. “I let Daisy, Tim, and Sasha know you’re okay—well, that you’re out, anyways, and physically in one piece.”

“Thank you.” Jon leaned back fully into Martin, closing his eyes.

Martin had so many curiosities, so many worries, but he couldn’t voice any of them. He wanted to understand what Jon had gone through, but the only similarity between people’s Isolations were that they were perfectly tailored personal hells, and he had no right to broach that. He was worried at how depleted Jon seemed and it wasn’t just physical. No matter how fake the horrors had been, they had been real to Jon, and if he had it right, the Isolation played by dream rules. Anything Jon gave power there had the power to hurt him body and soul. And Buried, did he look hurt.

Martin settled for holding Jon, for stroking down his arms lightly and murmuring sweet everythings and crooning softly when Jon winced and coughed. For his part, Jon let his eyes drift shut. Martin would have thought he’d fallen asleep if not for the purposefulness of his feeble grip on his hand. 

His cactus let him know someone was approaching so Martin already had the door half open as Georgie’s fist was hovered for a knock.

“Oh. Hello, Martin.” 

“Georgie.” He offered her a grim smile.

“I’ve got the goods.” She stage-whispered, gesturing with a satchel over her shoulder that Martin could hear sloshing gently. “And a surprise.” She lifted a small black bag that meowed plaintively in a low, disgruntled voice.

“Is that—is that the Admiral?” Jon’s voice carried in a bare whisper. 

Martin moved aside so Georgie could bring in her precious cargo. “It sure is. Doctor Admiral reporting for duty.”

“That’s a lot of title.” Martin commented.

“Well, he was a decorated hero before he became a doctor for a town so small it was barely a town. It was deeply impoverished so he often provided service in exchange for marmalades and finely spun wool. He’s retired now but he still makes a house visit now and then. Like so.” Georgie explained, smooth as silk in a sober tone as she bent to release the impossibly fluffy cat from its carrier. He shook himself out indignantly and cast Georgie a baleful, royally offended look before making a beeline for Jon. 

“Oof.” Jon croaked as the cat settled on his chest. “Hello, there, Doctor Admiral.” Martin’s heart felt like a whole clutch of arrows had been shot through his heart, a deeply painful sense of endearment. 

Georgie riffled through the satchel, passing two blood bags over to Martin before crossing the flat to the kitchenette and placing the rest of the contents into the fridge. “To maintain baseline functions, he only needs a bag a day, but considering how famished he is, I suspect he’ll need more until he’s recovered. I can make a run to Jon’s flat as needed.” 

“You’re—the best.” Jon managed, eyes still intent on the loaf on his chest, hand pressed into fur so thick his hand sunk into it until it was barely visible. 

“Oh, I’m aware. Feels good to hear it, though.” Georgie said. She closed the fridge and perched on the arm of the sofa. “I’m glad to see you, old man.” It was clear then that she was putting up an admirable front, as the strain only bled through at the edges of her smile. “The Inevitable would have been well fed if you hadn’t returned.”

Judging by the quick moment of her eyes being completely consumed by the whites, Martin had no doubt she’d have risked it all on avenging Jon. She was incapable of fear by virtue of the End. And her god got its fill as people’s hourglasses ran out—it didn’t need the alliance at all. That was a Molotov cocktail waiting to be smashed in the streets.

“Lucky for us all…I’m here.” The corner of Jon’s mouth ticked up.

Georgie sighed. “I want to stay and treat you like a baby bird, but. Seems like Martin’s got a corner on the market. Don’t want to crowd you your first day back topside.”

“Come by soon?” 

“Oh, once you’re a bit settled you couldn’t shake me if you tried.” She paused, then snorted. “Well. In your state you couldn’t evade a snail.” She laughed at Jon’s best attempt at a scowl and headed for the door. “You just behave for Martin, old timer.”

Martin met her at the door, holding it open for her.

Georgie surprised him by enveloping him in a tight hug. She pulled back and gazed at him, so intent in her sincerity that her glamour slipped, the stark contrast of her skull against her dark skin jarring and beautiful, even more so due to the hollow of her third eye. “Thank you. For being here for him. In the ways that I can’t.”

Martin’s eyes widened. “Oh. Um. Yes, of course. I know you’d—you’d do anything for Jon. I would, too.”

Georgie broke into a sunny smile, baring the irregular teeth set into her skull. “I know. I know how you love him.” Martin’s cheeks burned even though she was stating simple fact. “One day we’ll need to sit down, you and I. I’ve a stash of embarrassing photos of Jon from uni I’ve been waiting to spring once he got involved with someone.”

“Georgie.” Jon warned from the sofa.

“Bye Martin.” Georgie cackled and planted a quick kiss on his cheek before bounding out and down the stairs that led to the ground level. 

“She’s a terror.” Jon complained.

“Well, you would know, you’re practically the prime minister of terrors.” Martin picked up one of the blood bags on the coffee table and. “Alright, love. Are you able to sit up?”

“With help.” Jon admitted, disgruntled. Martin’s heart heaved a sigh of relief. He much preferred Jon’s grousing to his uncharacteristic pliability. 

Martin helped him into a sitting position. The Admiral hopped off the sofa with a huff. Martin took a seat on the coffee table before he passed the bag to Jon. He held it in trembling fingers, bringing it almost reverently to his mouth. As soon as his fangs pierced the plastic, a switch turned and he was more creature than man, tearing into the bag, causing blood to spurt down his front. 

“Aht—” Martin narrowly dived in time to nab the quilt that had ended up balled at the end of the sofa. Jon growled between gulps and Martin rolled his eyes, returning to his perch, quilt safely tossed onto the armchair across the way. “I don’t want your fucking Capri Sun, Jon, calm down.” Vampires were so stupidly territorial. Martin was well aware of it before his dumb heart had dragged him into infatuation. But knowledge did not make it any less annoying. 

Once the first bag was drained dry, mere drops of blood staining the inside of the deflated bag, Jon came back to himself a bit. “Oh. Hmm. Sorry.” He looked down at himself in chagrin. “I owe you a whole new wardrobe at this point, don’t I?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Martin should maybe feel more upset that his Actual Favourite jumper with its endearing choo choo train was wrecked beyond salvation, but he was too overcome with the all-consuming buzz of relief that Jon was really here, in his flat, alive, despite Isolation’s best efforts. 

“I. Hmm. Can I have another?” He made little grabby hands and Martin passed him the other blood bag. He tore into it slightly less savagely this time, scarfing it down like the dog Martin had had as a child, Wishbone. He was somewhat impressed Jon did not choke from drinking too fast. When he was finished, he sat with the two eviscerated bags in his lap, bloodied hands on his knees. He already looked so much better—colour not returned to his cheeks, garish bruises under his eyes, but the extra deathly pallor gone. “Round three?” He asked, somewhat self-consciously. 

Martin got up to retrieve a third bag and Jon sipped at the opening like a gentleman, recovered enough to care about decorum. It was rather wasted at this point, but adorable. 

“So.” Martin began, not really knowing where he was going. 

“Yes, Martin?” Jon asked, his voice sounding fuller, steadier, only cracking slightly. 

“I uh, I missed you.” He found himself scrubbing roughly at his face, mortified at the threat of tears.

“Oh, darling.” Jon murmured, hands awkward as he tried to figure out where to place the squishy bag down. 

“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine.” Martin waved him off. He took several deep breaths, managing to hold back the onslaught brewing inside. “I mean I’m—I’m not, but. I’m more happy than anything. I believed in you, of course I did, but—”

“I would have been terrified for you, too. No matter what.” Jon met his eye. 

Martin sucked in a breath. This was still so new, though it felt like they’d been together for awhile, their relationship was barely a seed in the ground. He suspected no amount of time would ever prepare him for declarations like that, though. Martin had gotten used to derision and spite from his mother as she aged. He’d gotten used to being on his own. Then he’d gotten used to being tolerated, then appreciated, and even cared for, by Sasha and Tim. But Martin was still a novice in being cherished.

“Yeah.” He replied lamely. “That.”

“Well, I’m back.” Jon said, a measure of strength returned to his voice. “And I plan on keeping it that way. I’ll fight tooth and nail to stay here.”

Martin nodded. “The Archives needs you.”

“To ashes with the Archives.” Jon uttered with feeling. “I meant for you.”

“Oh.” Martin short-circuited then, his brain like a puddle of juice with a livewire dipped in. 

“’ _Oh_.’” Jon repeated, a smirk—that damned, godforsaken smirk that made Martin’s knees feel weird and lovely things—perched on his lips before he took another decadent sip. 

Martin shook his head, clearing it a bit. “When you’re done with that, we should get you cleaned up and to bed. Not really sure how you’re not an unconscious lump right now, honestly.”

“Priorities.” Jon gestured with the bag. “I will likely be out like a coma patient shortly. In the meantime, however, do tell me what I’ve missed this last—week.” He grimaced. 

“It wasn’t a week to you, was it?” Martin asked quietly.

“Never mind that.” Jon said with overstated bravado. “Who was me?”

“You…? Oh, the Archivist? Well, clearly, you’re irreplaceable—shut up Jon.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your expression is Loud stop being so smug. _Anyways_ , Sasha and I split the duties of the Head Archivist.”

Jon’s eyebrows ticked up. “Elias had you gang up on Tim? Can’t imagine that went well.” He said ‘Elias’ like it was rancid on his tongue, and Martin agreed. 

Martin heaved a put-upon sigh. “It was like when someone asks you to watch their tot, and they’re all like ‘oh, they’re an easy one, content to just play on their own, make them some mac n cheese they’ll be fine’ but then the kid actually makes you wonder if they’ve accidentally birthed a demon.” 

Jon laughed and the sound of it caused Martin’s heartbeat to pick up its pace. “I’ve never babysat but I’ve always thought wrangling Tim should qualify.”

“The first day he longboarded in with sunglasses and wrote his report in couplets.” 

“I don’t know whether I’m more impressed by his poetic prowess or pissed that he desecrated my Archives.”

“The poetry wasn’t half bad, and that made it all the worse.” Martin said grudgingly. “Well. He did end it with ‘ _roses are red, violets are blue, fight the system, and fuck you_.’”

Jon snorted. “Absolutely juvenile.” He said fondly.

“Didn’t miss much other than his antics, honestly. I swear you’re a magnet for trouble, the Archives were so…normal without you. Like, a proper office job. I mean, other than the minor crimes of course. And we did have a statement giver turn to what can charitably be called gelatin during their recording. Ah, well. _Exploded into_ is more accurate. He had said that the hospital food was eating him back.” Martin shivered. “He was currant flavoured.”

Jon grimaced. “Did you find that out, ah, firsthand?”

Martin looked at him with haunted eyes.

“Oh, that’s nasty.” Jon gave him a sympathetic look. 

“I would have pegged it as the work of the Spiral or maybe Stranger at a glance, but. Turned out to be a manifestation of the Corruption related to his acute fear of never leaving the hospital and having his existence reduced to that, gradually rotting from the inside out. Poor bloke.”

“Hmm.” Jon mused. He crumpled up the third plastic bag and Martin offered a hand to take them to the bin. Jon looked like he was going to fight him on it but acquiesced with a demure thanks.

“How do you feel?” Martin asked when he returned, looking down at Jon.

“Like a mosquito about to pop.” Jon said dryly.

“Thank you for that lovely visual.” 

“And exhausted.” Jon admitted. He looked aimlessly at his hands.

“Right. I’m sure. Let’s get you cleaned up, then. I’ll get you a spare set of clothes.”

“I really will go through your wardrobe at this rate.”

“I’ve learned my lesson. You’re getting the ratty stuff from now on. You’re on probation until you get your act together.” Martin teased.

“A fair ruling.” Jon nodded sagely. He made to get up but listed sideways and Martin caught him, bracing him against his taller frame. “Bit of vertigo.” He said, dazed. “That’s all.”

Martin hesitated then scooped Jon up. The smaller man squeaked, then immediately clamped his mouth down on the noise. 

“Put me down.” Jon said.

“Hmm. No.”

“Martin I am perfectly capable of walking myself across a flat.”

“Evidence debunks that and you need to get out of your bloodied clothes before you hibernate. Also, a shower is in order.”

“Oh I probably do smell horrendous at this point.” 

“You smell like roses that the Corruption got to.” 

“Rude.” Jon sniffed. He grimaced. “But accurate.”

Martin plunked Jon onto the closed toilet seat then fetched him a set of clothes—true to his word, of the rattiest faire, ancient sweatpants and a t-shirt so faded it had only the ghost of a design on the front. When he returned, he pulled up short, gawking.

Jon was naked.

Jon was naked in his bathroom. 

_Jonathan Sims_ was _naked_ in _his bathroom._

“Hmm? Martin why are you looking like a ghost just knocked over your plants.” Jon’s brow was furrowed. He looked down at himself. “Oh. Ah. Does this bother you? I probably should have asked if you were comfortable—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Martin squeaked, face aflame, certain he was blushing the hardest blush of his life. Jon shot him a bemused look. “I just didn’t expect you to be, ah—”

“So immodest?” Jon asked, lips quirked. 

“I don’t have an adjective for it and don’t press me for one.” Martin mumbled, cheeks burning all the brighter. He risked a look at Jon and it was a delectable kind of agony—feeling scorched when he looked but feeling bereft when he didn’t. Suffice it to say that Jon was beautiful from top to bottom and it was rather unfair of him to blindside Martin with it.

“I’m an extended member of a pack.” Jon shrugged. “Modesty is an inconvenience.” He stepped over the crumpled, ruined clothes on the tile and reached for the fresh set Martin held. 

He quickly relinquished it, barely able to root himself in place and not squirm at the proximity of this insanely gorgeous creature that _he was dating and oh my god._

Jon hummed softly as he pulled on the clothes, having already scrubbed off the blood on his front, the skin around his mouth still red from the effort. “I’m not sure I have it in me for a full shower.” He said apologetically. “I feel it creeping up on me—I’m going to have to sleep deeply and let my body repair itself.”

Martin nodded. “How about just washing your hair?”

Jon’s face was open in surprise before it turned to appraisal. “You know, that would probably feel significantly better, yes.” 

“I’d wager.” Martin reached into the shower and plucked his shampoo off the shelf. It had a woodsy, clean scent to it that blended well with his flora. He hated the chemical smell of artificial flowers. “Alright, lean forward in the sink.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I um, ah. If it’s okay, I’d like to wash your hair for you.” He blushed further, truly reaching new heights. “This is the quickest way to do it.”

Jon nodded slowly. “That would be…nice.” He leaned into the sink obediently as Martin turned the faucet to warm. Jon sputtered a moment before figuring out he needed to tilt his face away from the stream. Idiot. Beautiful, lovely idiot. 

Martin worked the shampoo into a lather in his palms, then worked it gently into Jon’s hair. The tension immediately left the other man’s frame, and he leaned back into Martin. It was a particular kind of intimacy, being allowed to touch Jon in a way that was purely about service and closeness. He worked the knots out of his tangled hair, combing his fingers through until he was satisfied. When he was done, he reached over and turned the faucet off. They just leaned into each other for a moment. Martin gave a cursory toweling of Jon’s hair so it wasn’t dripping.

“That was really nice.” Jon said. “Thank you.” He yawned wide, fangs exposed. 

Martin pressed his chin into Jon’s damp hair briefly. “Let’s get you to bed.” He guided the way to his bedroom, hovering in case Jon needed his support again.  


Martin pushed his weighted blankets to one side of the bed, then pulled the regular duvet down so Jon could get in. He scuttled into the heart of the duvet like a little bug, burrowing into the promised warmth. He sighed in contentment. 

“Stay with me?” He asked drowsily, barely keeping his eyes open, the slit pupils barely peeking through.

Martin crawled into the opposite side of the bed, rolling the weighted blankets back until only one pressed down on him. He didn’t know if Jon was a wanderer in his sleep, let alone a vampiric coma, and would hate to have him crushed. Once Martin was settled, Jon turned to him with those slitted eyes, arms wide open. Martin chuckled and scooted closer until he could wrap Jon snug against him. The smaller man sighed, eyes finally slipping shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon: I am a refined and dignified vampire.  
> Also Jon: constantly spilling blood on himself and hissing like an alley cat.  
> ALSO Jon: please nest with me like I am baby bird.  
> A L S O Jon: But remember I have sharp teeth and I'm scary, though.
> 
> Tim: My biggest role model is myself.


	26. our carapaces of blood and stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon joins the Hunt, and Martin goes back to his roots.
> 
> CWs this chapter: cruelty, compulsion (consensual), lying, mention of gambling, predator behaviour, eco horror, body horror, gross visuals, sadism, dismemberment, violation of boundaries.
> 
> this chapter especially drives home the fact that in this AU, the monsters are completely happy being monsters and doing monstrous things! they happily kill people and eat their fear! please take xtra care of yourself in reading. I'll have a summary at the bottom if you wanna skip this one, it's not vital to the overarching plot anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello o magnificent bumblebees! As always, thank you for your support, encouragement, engagement, and angst! Your feedback gives me a hit of that good good serotonin, and it's so fun to have a readership to foist my indulgent fic on.
> 
> This chapter made me viscerally uncomfortable but I do so love writing monsters being monstrous. Jon Finally is a proper vampire in this one. Good job, Jon. You know what they say, the hundredth time is the charm.

Jon slept for days. If you could call it sleep. It was more like a trial for death. Death lite. His chest rose and fell. He didn’t move. Martin maneuvered him here and there, adjusting him to so he could hold Jon in his arms, or so Martin could rest his head on Jon’s chest. 

Martin worked from home, refusing to leave Jon in such a vulnerable state unprotected. Agnes had reassured him that she had no further designs on Jon, that she had accepted his penance and deemed the debt paid in full, but he didn’t want to take the risk. “ _Death would have brought him too much peace_ ,” she’d said. He’d had to walk away before he did something rash. 

So Martin spent a week facetiming with his coworkers, following up leads via phone call and searching databases that quite frankly he should not have access to. They were incredibly understanding, though after day three Sasha had texted him to say Jon needed to hurry up so she could take a vacation from Tim. Tim kept sending him selfies—one of him sat at Jon’s desk, wearing his reading glasses while he “read” an upside down book. There was one of him stretched across the desk in a “draw me like one of your French girls” pose. There was one of _Poe_ sitting at Jon’s desk, tolerating the reading glasses balanced on his nose. Perhaps the best was one with Elias coming up behind Tim, capturing a blur effect and the exact moment Tim realised his boss’s boss was there. 

If you squinted, it looked like Elias had several sets of eyes.

Martin had sent Tim a picture of himself lining gummy bears up Jon’s torso and another of him balancing a spoon on Jon’s nose. He had sworn Tim to secrecy. Which meant he would show Jon and tease him at the first opportunity, of course.

It was a bit after the sun crept across the horizon when Jon woke up.

“Martin.” A couple beats. “Martin.”

Martin gazed blearily through half-shut eyes. “Wuzzat?” 

“Martin, I’d like to move now, if that’s agreeable.”

Martin shook his head to clear it then pushed himself up on his elbows. He glanced down and yelped. “Shite. Sorry.” His vines had grown into a tangle around Jon, securing him in place. Wildflowers trailed down him as well.

“It’s alright.” Jon said, bemused. 

Martin quickly set to unspooling the vines, retracting them and absorbing them into his wrists like a reverse Spider-Man. He plucked the flowers free one by one. Jon caught Martin’s wrist before he picked out the last one from his hair.

“I’d like to keep this one.” Jon said, tucking the daffodil safely behind his ear.

“Oh.” Martin just stared down at Jon, at a loss, blush cresting on his cheeks.

“Hello.” Jon said as he gazed up.

“Hi.” Martin breathed. “Did you sleep well? Or, um—”

“Recover.” Jon provided kindly. “It’s not like sleeping, no dreaming, no awareness. I feel much better, though, yes.”

“Oh thank god.” Martin sighed his relief. “You look better—a bit more filled out, more vibrant. Are you…are you hungry again?”

Jon played with the hem of Martin’s shirt. “Yes. I’ll need fresh blood soon, blood straight from the vein. The portion of the Hunt in me is hungry, too.”

“Oh. Um. Should I call Daisy?” Martin had a cursory knowledge of how the Hunt was to be fed, what it required of its Avatars. They had to either tithe lifeblood or set a mortal to the Hunt, which could include awakening an avarice that had them chasing money, or searching for the Holy Grail, or bestowing an all-consuming certainty of being followed, stalked like a deer during hunting season—there were a thousand literal and abstract ways to sate the fear god.

“No need. Just let her know I’m up and about and that I’ll be heading to the estate of the Lord of the Chase.”

“So you’re leaving, then?” There was no reason to feel hurt, really. Of course Jon would return to his kind as soon as he was able. It was ridiculous to feel bereft at losing Jon as quickly as he’d gotten him back. Even though most of that time was spent with Jon hibernating. 

Jon could sense his apprehension. “Not right away. I’ll head out when the night is fully set.”

“Can I—” Martin scrounged up the courage to continue. “Would it be okay if I went with you?”

Jon’s brows kicked up in surprise. “To the Estate or to the Hunt?”

“Either. Both.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Jon said slowly.

“Oh.” The utterance was hollow. Martin cast his gaze to the side, trying not to let the sharp knife of rejection cut up his insides.

Jon took Martin’s chin in one hand, tilting until they locked eyes. “It’s nothing to do with you, darling. I just—I don’t want you to see me like that.” Jon released Martin’s chin and it was his turn to look away. “And I don’t trust myself, not after—”

“Jon there’s nothing you could be that would make me turn away.” Martin said. “I don’t—I don’t know what happened in Isolation, but that wasn’t you, Jon, not really, and it definitely wasn’t me.”

“You can’t know that.” Jon murmured, Adam’s apple dipping. “It was precisely me. I didn’t recognise you. I didn’t know you until it was too late, until your blood—and then—”

“Shh.” Martin hushed him, stroking a soothing thumb across the other man’s brow. “Isolation was just trying to convince you you’re nothing but your worst parts. And do you really think you’re capable of anything I’m not?”

Jon leveled him with a look. “I’ve practically worn intestines like a scarf, Martin.”

Martin snorted. “You’re disgusting. Maybe our methods are different, maybe It Is Too Close I Cannot Breathe is a bit less—gory, on average. But do you really think I haven’t brutalised people? Killed people?”

Jon frowned. “I mean I’m sure—I’m sure you’ve—I can’t quite picture it, but I’m sure you’ve done some, ah, remarkable things as an Avatar. But it’s not the same—” He fidgeted.

“Ask me what happened to Jane Prentiss.”

“What?” Jon’s gaze snapped up.

“You heard me. Ask me what I did to Prentiss, Jon.”

“I—”

“ _Really_ ask me. With a capital ‘A.’ Ask me so you get the ugly, unvarnished truth. And then make your decision about what I should be privy to.”

“I—alright—” Jon’s frown deepened. “Martin Blackwood— _ **what happened to Jane Prentiss**_?”

Martin sucked in a breath as the compulsion settled over him almost like one of his weighted blankets. It was a purposeful pressure, promising release if he just let the words stream out like taffy gently pulled from his heart. It also promised ruin if he fought it. He slid into it without resistance. 

“I made it sound like I’d killed her the day of the Infiltration, when she oozed in with her little army of worms. I made it sound like that on purpose. If I didn’t, the questions wouldn’t stop. None of you would have stopped wondering, _looking_. Basira would have taken her away from me. And no one could have her but me.” Martin paused, licking his lips. “I stowed her in the tunnels. Made a cavern with nothing connected to it. No tunnels to stumble upon it through. No way to find. No way to escape. I made art of her, grew thick roots that twisted through her ribs, punctured her lungs, forced her mouth open in a scream that could never really start and could certainly never finish. Some of her worms abandoned her, lots of them actually. Enough stayed to keep her alive as she watched me step on them one by one by one. I birthed my plants in the soft tissue of her organs. Ferns and fungus and blossoms and barbs. I invaded her like she invaded me.” 

Martin took a breath, carrying on as Jon’s eyes continued to widen. “I would have kept her like that, maybe forever, maybe until I got bored. But then Daisy came special delivery in our Casket. And Jane Prentiss was the perfect bargaining chip. So I fed her directly to the Buried, where she still is, worms suffocated with mud, all alone as she chokes ceaselessly on clay that will never permit her the mercy of death.” Martin lapsed into a brief silence as the compulsion dwindled into nothing, his story told. “Huh. I wonder if that did anything for the Eye.” He looked back at Jon, whose face was still lit with horror. “I don’t regret it, Jonathan. I’d still have my plaything if Daisy didn’t need my help.”

“She was—she was there in the Archives all along. All along, until Daisy—that was _months_ Martin!” 

“It was.” Martin nodded. He tilted his head. “So are you going to walk away, Jon? Now that you know what I’m capable of? That you know that was only the first couple of stairs, that I was cut short of reaching my full heights?”

Jon shook his head numbly. “Of course not. No.” He scrubbed his face with his hands in brusque circles. “You just seemed so—I don’t know, so benign for an Avatar. I knew on some level you must do rather sordid things to feed and please your god, but. I didn’t think…” He shook his head again.

“You didn’t think I’d enjoy it.” Martin smiled bitterly. “Soft Martin, flower crown Martin, Martin with the cosy jumpers and easy smile.” Martin exhaled, bemused. “There is nothing you could do that I would shy away from. I’m every inch a monster as you, Jon.”

“I see. Well. I still don’t want you to come on the hunt. But I’d very much like it if you traveled to the estate with me.”

“I’d like to see Alister again.” Martin nodded. He wasn’t quite satisfied—he wanted to watch Jon in his truest, unrestrained form. But anything else he had to say would be manipulation and he would never do that, not to him.

“You know Alister?” 

“Daisy introduced me. After you—well, you know.” Martin paused. “They said that the local kin of the Hunt belongs to me as much as I do it. Daisy claimed me, too. So. I guess I get a tourist visa to their territory?”

Jon nodded slowly. “Alright. Alright. That’s good, I suppose. I’m not fond of Daisy taking a share of you, but. The blessing of the pack is a valuable thing.”

Martin stared at him hard until he took notice.

“What?”

“I’m not stock in a company, Jon.”

Jon looked confused and Martin let out an exasperated sigh. “There are no _shares_ of me.”

Jon had the decency to look chagrined. “Well, ah. We _do_ both have an interest in you.” He shot weak finger guns.

“Jon. Jon. Did you just make a financial pun?”

Jon took that opportunity to get out of bed and stretch his long unused muscles. “Oh, look, the sun’s set. Let’s head out. I plan to stay at the estate tonight, you’re welcome to as well.”

Martin allowed the change of subject. “Alright. Do you need to stop by your flat?”

“Yes, I should. Get some new clothes on after lying about for—how long has it been?”

“Almost a week.”

“A week!” 

“You were in a very bad way.” Martin shrugged. “Probably more rest than you’ve gotten in the last decade, huh.”

Jon just shook his head. “Right. Well, let’s buzz by my flat, so I can get my own clothing to ruin if things get, ah, messy.”

By the time they made it to the pack’s estate, it was well into the night. 

“Jon!” Daisy was on them as soon as they were in the door. She wrapped her arms around Jon in what looked like a hug that would have crushed the organs of a lesser man. She turned to Martin as if to embrace him as well and he took a healthy step back. Unbothered, she turned back to Jon. “It has been absolutely miserable without you, you know. Had me wondering if I should be planning your funeral in case they hauled out your prune self if you’d croaked in there.”

“Daisy!” Martin exclaimed, but Jon just laughed. 

“And did you?” He asked, amused.

“I didn’t get very far. Thought it might be fun to put your ashes in a little bat mobile, have a toast with fruit punch, because, y’know, blood. Grave marker that says ‘ _He Sucked_.’”

“Read some passages from your kind’s holy book, _Twilight_.” Martin supplied. Daisy made a delighted noise and Jon turned his glower from her to Martin.

“Good thing I haven’t perished, then.” He said evenly. “I would have absolutely detested that top to bottom.”

“Well, _you_ wouldn’t be there.” Daisy said. “It would be for us, don’t be selfish.” 

“Oh my god.” Martin whispered so suddenly and fiercely that Jon flinched.

“What? What is it?” 

“I just realised.” Martin said low and reverent. “Every time you take a statement it’s an _interview with a vampire_.”

At that, Jon power-walked away from them, trailed by Daisy’s cackle. “I need to tear something open immediately.”

“Jonathan.” The Lord said warmly when they had convened in the shared living space. “Thrilled to have you on this Hunt to spill communal blood.” Their expression turned icy. Martin shivered reflexively. “I was not pleased to hear you’d been taken from us in such a fashion. The Institute is lucky that you’ve been returned to us unscathed.” 

Martin thought the term “unscathed” was a bit too generous, but Alister hadn’t seen Jon fresh out of his personal hell.

Jon nodded sagely. “Thank you.”

“Do try not to kill inconvenient people here on out, won’t you?” 

“I assure you, it was an object lesson.”

“And was it worth it?” A smile played on their lips.

Jon glanced at Martin. “I only wish I didn’t rush through the task.” 

The smile grew sharp.

They shortly left after that—Daisy, Jon, Alister, and a few other various creatures, hell hound and simply other alike. 

“When you say Hunt—you mean—” Martin began as they stood on the threshold of the front door.

“People, Martin.” Jon looked at him with a steady, appraising expression.

Martin nodded. “Thought as much. Alright, then.” He rested his chin on the top of Jon’s hair briefly, sighing. “Come back to me.”

Jon pressed a lingering kiss into Martin’s mouth before heading out the door. 

“Soon.” His mouth was soft under Martin’s. “Promise.”

Then he was gone.

Martin waited a handful of minutes before stepping onto the porch and slipping the door shut behind him. He bent down and asked a hedge the direction the group had gone in. It answered readily, straining to be nearer him. He gave the hedge a pat and took several strides in the direction of the pack. Then he melted into the earth.

His skin became slick clay, melding into the ground, adapting to the sediments and root systems present. He followed the Hunt, now able to feel them through the earth, the Buried guiding him. They were quick, if he were in his mortal form Martin would have had no hope of keeping pace. But speed did not work the same way in his earth skin. He roiled through the ground, changing composition as needed, from dirt to gravel to concrete. 

He watched in fascination as they descended upon London, coordinated and somehow compact despite their number—like a school of fish kept tight in their ranks.  
They herded an unlucky mortal into an alley, pack breaking out of formation to channel their prey along, guiding them in the desired direction as if it was the person’s choice in their flight. They realized their error when they stopped short at the fence. They scrabbled at it in a futile attempt to gain purchase where there was none to be had. If Martin had nails, they would be twinging in sympathy. Once the whole pack was in the alley, they fell back, sentries with violence and adrenaline burning off them. They waited until Jon took the lead, breaking rank to approach the person that was now huddled in on themself before the fence, shaking arm raised in defence. 

Jon was beautiful.

From the brick wall, Martin could see the glow of his eyes, sharp against the night, the whites gone filmy black. His fully extended claws made his normal ones look like a French manicure, cute and trite. These ones, in their truest form, were wicked curves that would make Wolverine feel the need to compensate. His hair was a tangle of dark waves that contrasted against his lavender skin. His spine protruded, pairs of what seemed like vestigial bat wings lining it from shoulder to tailbone.  
When he opened his mouth, unhinging it like a snake, there was two anglerfish’s worth of sharp teeth, accented by his enlarged canines. 

“ _You don’t need to worry about your gambling debts anymore_.” Jon’s voice came out in a fractured hiss. “ _You have much worse things following you_.”

Jon struck like lightning, in one place one moment and on the person the next. 

The pack descended.

Jon was right, to a point. Martin had seen some horrible, bloody messes in his life. He’d watched eyes pop in their sockets, intestines crawling out of mouths, turned to vines. He’d seen barbs saw through people. Seen thin roots used as a garotte. He’d even made some bloody messes. But he hadn’t been prepared for the Hunt. There was a difference between the sheer animal brutality of it and what Martin was used to. 

In minutes, the person was only a memory of a person, limbs dangling from several mouths, so much blood soaked into the alley. Jon sat primly next to the remains, supping on a palmful of blood that ran between his fingers.

If Martin could roll his eyes in brick form, he would have, and then done it again for good measure. Trust Jon to be about as graceful as a giraffe in heels on any given day, then be perfectly composed at a chaotic crime scene, taking blood at his leisure. 

Martin left them to it, funneling himself back to the estate to make good time before they returned. He passed the time making some of the fancy tea in the kitchens and lounging about on a sofa, surrounded by the pack’s mundane hounds. They were such good boys and girls that they stood still as he made them little wreathes of flowers and laurels that suited their colourings best. He snapped several photos and sent them to his group chat with Tim and Sasha, and then to Georgie. It was less than a minute before Georgie sent him back a stream of heart eyes emojis. She sent him back an offering of the Admiral draped around her shoulders as she held a gaming controller. Melanie was in her lap making a face at the camera.

The hounds suddenly whipped into a frenzy, bounding to the door, dislodging some of their flowers and, in one case, the entire wreath. 

Jon strode immediately to Martin, securing the back of his head with one hand as he pulled him into a deep, claiming kiss. Okay, so maybe some of the dumb territorial vampire stuff was permissible on occasion. “I know you were there.” 

Martin tensed, but Jon didn’t seem to be upset so he willed himself to relax. “How?”

“The mark of the Hunt. If you were unclaimed, I wouldn’t have been able to tell.” Jon raised a brow.

“Are you mad that I went against your wishes?” 

Jon sighed. “No. Yes. I don’t like—I don’t like you betraying a boundary I’d set.”

A coil of guilt unspooled in Martin’s stomach, flexing its roots and spreading. “Oh. You’re absolutely right. I valued my curiosity more than your boundaries. I’m so—I won’t do it again.”

Jon nodded shortly. “Thank you. So…what did you think?” There was a bit of anxiety in his voice. 

Martin’s lips quirked into a crooked smile. “Are you ever disappointed you have so many wings but you can’t fly?”

Jon looked nonplussed. “I— _that’s_ the thing you focus on.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“…Yes. Of course I am.” Jon said gruffly, the tips of his ears going a bit pink. 

“They’re like that caterpillar in _Bug’s Life_. Wings too tiny for your body.”

“You’re comparing my monstrous anatomy to a…chunky cartoon butterfly.” He said flatly, expression sour.

“Animated.” Martin corrected with an unrepentant grin. He sobered. “But you know what else I thought?”

“I’m not sure I want to know. I haven’t had a great time thus far.”

“I think--,” Martin guided Jon closer with a hand at the small of his waist. His voice dipped. “That you are every inch gorgeous as you are terrifying. You can be the monster under my bed anytime. Or in my bed.” He winked.

Jon flushed fully then.

“We can hear you.” Daisy sang out from all the way in the kitchens. 

“Do keep talking.” Alister called lazily, like a satiated cat. “This is better than the telly.”

“Oops.” Martin said, having the decency to match Jon’s blush.

“And on that note.” Jon said, grabbing Martin’s hand and guiding him from the room. “It’s time we turn in for the night.” 

Jon made quick work of cleaning up, coming back to the guest room wearing fresh sweats and a T-shirt that was too big, hanging endearingly on his narrow frame. He climbed into bed next to Martin, yelping as Martin immediately pressed his freezing feet into Jon’s shower-warmed shins. Martin turned on his side—Jon liked being the big spoon. After several minutes of just basking in the presence of each other, Jon spoke.

“Can I see you?” He asked quietly, almost meek.

“See me?” 

“The real you. Beneath all the—the smoke and curtains. You’ve a lovely exterior, hall of fame, really, but I’d like—I want to see what you look like. I only get Glimpses with my link to Beholding.”

Martin shifted so he was facing Jon. “I ‘spose it’s only fair, after taking liberties today and seeing you in your wholeness.”

“I mean—I don’t want it to be a trade-off. I don’t want you doing something you don’t want to just to—to even the score or something.” 

“No, it’s fine. Really.” Martin chuckled nervously. “I haven’t—um—really shown anyone except for my kin. The other Green Men and some of the Dryads. Couple of the Venuses as well. But no one outside the Buried.”

“Then I’m honoured you’re choosing to show me.” Jon said with weighted words.

Martin nodded, swallowed sharply. “Well, ah, here goes I ‘spose.” He shifted back a bit further to provide room for his branches. He let his glamour drop slowly, like slipping out of a dress into something more comfortable, something that clung close to the skin— _was_ his skin.

Martin’s eldritch form wasn’t stagnant like Jon’s—it changed with the season, with Martin’s whims. The naked version of him now was of an autumn creature perishing, folding itself back into the earth to sleep through the winter and be reborn. His skin was like clay, shaped to partially cover the skeletal birch branches that made up his ribs, the sea glass of his heart, the amber of his stomach that trapped spiders and beetles and the last of the croissant he’d had for breakfast. He wore a circlet of mushrooms and acorns and fall leaves. Ferns leaked from his eye sockets, his eyes faceted gemstones. Sparkling geodes crusted his nail beds, veins of ivy laced his arms. Things got quite a bit more interesting below the waistline but his pyjama trousers made that a secret kept safe.

Jon breathed out in awe. 

“Oh, Martin.”

“I know, I know—I look like a fancy mud pie—”

Jon held Martin’s face in his hands, fingers pressing gently into the pliant clay that served as his flesh. “I don’t think I’ve seen the colour your eyes are before.”

Martin shrugged, embarrassed. “Yeah. There’s um, there’s some stuff below ground that most people never get to see.”

Jon’s hands absently trailed across Martin’s torso, fingers catching on his wooden ribs. His fingertips slipped through and he hastily took them back.

“You can touch, if you want.” Martin couldn’t blush in this form, but he was about to test that impossibility. 

Jon didn’t hesitate then, his trembling hand reaching under Martin’s ribcage to hold his glass spun heart in his palm. Jon looked up at him in wonder, mouth slightly ajar. Martin shook lightly under the tremendous sensation of the one he loved literally holding his heart in his hand, overexposed but never having felt safer.

“Martin Blackwood, you are the most radiant creature the earth has ever created.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin: I know what you are.  
> Jon:...  
> Martin: Say it.  
> Jon: I hate this and also you.  
> Martin, whispering: Vampire.
> 
> Summary for those that skipped: Jon awakens from his vampiric coma, physically healed. Martin goes against Jon's wishes and follows him on a Hunt with the local pack, witnessing Jon in his truest form as they kill a poor soul in an alley. Jon and Martin discuss boundaries. Martin shows Jon his own truest form. The curtains fall on a tender moment.
> 
> Please enjoy the tenderness while it lasts!


	27. a match is struck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon has his first day back in the Archives, Martin goes on an adventure, and things escalate rather quickly.
> 
> CWs this chapter: mild gore (mentioned), threats of violence, panic attack, bloodthirst, revisited trauma, body horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello you beautiful bits of starshine! I hope your days have been absolutely lovely. Thank you, as always, for reading and for giving me that sweet sweet dopamine with your feedback. 
> 
> This chapter initiates the final arc of the story. Prepare thineself, for things are about to get chaotic. (But I am a strawberry cream puff with a knife so rest assured there will be comfort dashed in with the hurt.)

“Boss-man!” Tim shouted as soon as Jon and Martin walked into the Archives. “Glad to have you back in one piece.”

Sasha looked up from her work, mouth stretched in an impossible smile. “Jon.” Her voice was tinged with a delighted echo.

“Oh! Oh.” Tim looked bewildered.

Jon followed his gaze to his and Martin’s intertwined hands. 

“So that’s new.” Tim said, purposefully casually.

“Good for you, Martin.” Sasha smiled. “’Bout time Jon realised what a catch you are.”

“Thanks.” Martin blushed a deep crimson. 

“So you’re--?” Tim led.

“We’re dating.” Jon said definitively with an arched brow. It felt…good, to have it in the open, on the record. Part of it was his baser instincts, pleased to finally lay unmistakable claim on Martin in front of everyone. But bigger than that, there was a glowing hum in his chest, it was—it was— _pride_. He was _proud_ to be with Martin. That this vibrant, big-hearted, bloodthirsty man deigned to give Jon of all creatures his affections. 

Martin squeezed his hand tighter.

“Does this mean—Martin you weren’t lying before?” Tim’s eyes grew wide. “You really shagged in the infirmary? _With Daisy right there_.” He huffed. “That’s disgusting.”

A distant caw could be heard from the hallway.

“Of course not.” Jon said in a harsh whisper. 

“Well _good_. That would have been distasteful, to say the least.”

“If you’re quite done, Timothy.” He turned to Sasha. “Martin’s kept me abreast of what you’ve been up to while he was working remotely. Is there anything I can pitch in on?”

Sasha waved him off. “No, no. There is a backlog of statements to be recorded, though. Since Martin was indisposed of the last week and I just break them with my voice and, well, you know how Tim feels.” 

Tim refused to have anything to do with taking or recording statements in any form but mundane, lifeless paperwork. He would not cede a centimetre to the Eye in his tenure at the Institute. 

“Very well.” Jon nodded, taking a deep breath. “I suppose I’ll get to it.” With a sidelong glance at Tim and Sasha, Jon turned to Martin and lifted up a bit on his tiptoes to press a kiss into his cheek. He smiled at Martin’s bewildered expression as he pressed his fingertips to his cheek.

“That probably breaks like, a whole binder of rules.” Sasha mused as she leaned over her desk, chin rested on her splayed, impossible fingers. “I approve.”

“Oh, yes. I like this. I like this a lot.” Tim gestured from top to bottom of Jon and then up again with a wide, sharkish grin. “Rebellious Jon. Archivist without a cause.” 

Jon rolled his eyes, though he was secretly pleased. He didn’t dignify that with a response, just strode to his office and shut the door, surveilling the space with an odd weight in his chest. Things were almost how he’d left them, though someone—likely Sasha—had attempted to rein in the files on his desk. He sighed deeply, fingers twitching with irritation against his thigh. It no doubt looked like chaos from an outside perspective, but he actually did have a system, and here it was, upended.

Anger.

The weight in his chest. 

That’s what it was.

Once he put his claw on it, the feeling was an unmistakable heat burning within. He was absolutely _furious_ that he’d been subjected to Isolation, hefted out of it like a bag of mulch, and left to his own devices with the unspoken assumption that _of course_ he would come back, pick up where he left off, sit at his desk and sacrifice to a foreign god with each damned cassette tape as if none of it had happened. As if he hadn’t had real and fake traumas alike twisted into each other, closing in on him like a pack of much worse than wolves, chipping away at him until he was a husk of himself, a split cocoon with a limping moth, his strength leaving him until he became an accessory of the darkness, all senses robbed except for _pain_ , as if—

Jon’s hands shook around the top of his chair. He leaned his weight into it as he took a steadying breath, then sank into the seat, let his head drop onto the cool surface of his desk with its neat piles and the rings that were ghosts of tea past. He ran a hand along his jaw, closing his eyes as he breathed in three, held for three, breathed out three, rinse, repeat, all the while numbering three things he smelt—the crisp floral of Martin, the ocean breeze of Tim, the sensation of an electrical fire that was Sasha—three things he felt—the desk pressed against him with its slightly uneven grain, his scarf wrapped snugly around his neck, the weight of his flask in his jacket pocket—and three things he heard—the tapping away at keyboards, the sharp whistle of the kettle from the breakroom, something truly unholy coming from Artefact Storage, something that sounded alive and wished it wasn’t. 

Pulse steady and breathing evened out, Jon sat up and primly set about righting the organisation of his desk. 

While he was busy with a file of case notes, a cassette tape manifested in the middle of his desk, its aura commanding and luring. He felt the acute promise of Knowledge and Sensation and _Yes I’ll Share_ buzzing in the back of his skull. He rubbed at his temple fervently. He wanted to snap the damned thing in his hands, to rip the tape out of it like oily, shining intestines. 

He picked up the recorder.

“… _Statement ends_.” Jon came back to himself slowly, slipping back into his skin, his precise dimensions. It had only been a week in mortal time since he’d last ate a statement on behalf of Beholding, but Isolation was scornful of mortal measurements of reality. The anger burning brightly through him was numbed a bit with the fear licking down his mind, the Seeing of what exactly made Verity Beauregard tick and how one could dissect it with greedy, hungry talons. He was not all that sympathetic.

There were worse things to be than a doll with a scream trapped forever in one’s porcelain throat.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in.” He called.

Martin peeked in. “Hey, uh, hi. Sounded like there was a break in the statements, thought you might need a spot of tea especially since—since you’re getting back into the swing of things.” He gestured with a mug bashfully.

“Yes.” Jon agreed tiredly. “That would be lovely.” He felt out of sorts, white noise still whining in his ear and that sharp ozone smell that filled the room after a statement. 

As Martin crossed the threshold, Tim’s voice boomed from the outer offices. “You’re not gonna snog on the clock, are you? If Sasha gets to and now you lads get to, I deserve many snogs and to be paid while I have them.”

“Go wild.” Martin replied dryly, refusing to rise to the bait, though a telltale blush sat high in his cheeks. Jon wondered how Martin didn’t just combust. Martin kicked the door shut lightly.

“Oh, now you _know_ they’re snogging.” Jon heard Sasha say to Tim.

“They’re actually being more mature about it than I would have ever dared hope.” Martin said as he placed the mug in its usual spot on the desk. Steam curled leisurely upward, filling the air with the strong aroma of deeply steeped earl grey, bergamot and citrus wrapping around him in a thin layer of comfort. 

“Well, considering the bar I had set was so low only an insect could limbo under it, I have to agree.” Jon drawled.

Martin smirked, then his expression grew sober. “How are you holding up.” It was less a question, Jon could feel the underlying _I know the answer is not well so don’t say it_.

Jon shrugged. “Happy to be back. Bitter to be back. Angry that they let me rot. Angry that I’m a fool, coming back here and working myself to the bone for someone else’s god after all of it.” He tipped the mug back as if taking a hit of something stronger.

“If it makes you feel any better, I told Elias to fuck off for you.” 

Jon spit his mouthful of tea back into the cup and both he and Martin grimaced. “You _what_.”

“I _said_. I told Elias to fuck off.” Martin preened as he leaned on the desk. 

Jon let out a bewildered laugh. That was so…thoroughly delightful and entirely ill-advised. “And how did he take that, pray tell.”

Martin drew a loose circle on the desk with his index finger, peeking up at Jon through his long lashes. “Let’s just say I don’t regret it but it won’t be a hobby of mine.”

Jon hummed. Elias was not known to ruffle easily—or, come to think of it, at all—but he did so care about _manners_. He may pick your bones clean and feed them to you, but by God he would be polite from start to finish. “Yes, let’s not try our luck, shall we?”

“I have to go interview a botanical garden.” Martin said, finger pausing in its meandering on the desk. “Statement claims to have witnessed a gazebo with unusual dimensions. Seems to grow bigger every time someone goes in. Guy sat on a bench for eight whole hours to confirm.”

“And what comes out of the gazebo?” Jon canted his head.

“Dunno. Guess I’ll go find out. Guy was found half in and half out of it. Fingers were bloody stubs. The half out was cleaved impeccably neatly, wounds cauterised.”

“Gross.” He pictured a torso being dragged around like a ragdoll. Jon got up. He didn’t know quite what he was doing until he was crossing to Martin who watched him warily. “C’mere.” He wanted to envelop himself in the man, to cleanse the silky fingers of Beholding’s presence in his head, the unbearable weight of being Known. He circled Martin, trying not to think of it as herding prey—he was to be protected, not pursued. He pushed Martin against the desk. 

“Well this is a little forward.” Martin commented, though he didn’t seem bothered. Quite the opposite. Jon loved the sound of Martin’s heartbeat picking up, knowing it was because of him, knowing it was _for him_. 

“Hush.” Jon kissed him full on the mouth, Martin’s response lost between the press of their lips. Jon trailed the length of his neck, his thin fingers—his gran had called them _piano fingers_ —tilting his jaw. He bit and sucked, wanting to leave a mark that would bear testament as Martin went on his little adventure. His mouth posed ready for another bruising kiss.

Martin pulled back. “Hold on—Jon do you just want a snack?” 

Oh. Hmm. 

Well. 

That explained the oddly specific pang in the back of his throat. He wanted Martin, in particular. To ground himself, claw away from the Eye and envelop himself in someone he actually wanted to know him thoroughly.

“I mean, if you’re offering.” 

“I’m not fucking trail mix.” 

Jon laughed softly, face buried against the other man’s neck.

“You’re incorrigible.” Martin scowled. “You know you can just ask nicely.”

“I think we’ve established I’m not nice.” Jon pulled back, beaming, unrepentant. 

Martin rolled his eyes. “Get on with it then, you absolute menace.”

Jon hummed, drawing his thumb across Martin’s lips. “You spoil me.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

Jon chuckled, tilting his head once again. Martin didn’t even tense. His fangs slid in flawlessly. Yes, this is what he’d wanted. To shake off the Ceaseless Watcher and welcome the Hunt into ascendence and lose himself in Martin. He didn’t take very much at all, savouring rather than truly feeding. “Do you want to know a secret?” He whispered as he drew back. 

“Do tell.” 

Jon licked his lips. “I’m not even hungry. I just like the idea of having the taste of you with me throughout the day.” 

“That is…simultaneously very unsettling and touching. I also think I’m turned on? Quite a talent you’ve got there.” 

Jon grinned. “Hurry along, then. I want to hear all the gory details when you get back.”

Martin dipped to press a kiss into his brow. Jon melted, just a little. (Okay, a Lot.) He was still getting used to the idea of being on the receiving end of such patient adoration, of feeling deserving of such care, of wanting to be Martin’s moon and reflect all his warmth back to him—

Martin ruffled his hair.

Jon scowled, batting his hand away. He huffed an irritated sigh as he pulled the satin elastic out of his hair and reworked his hair into a bun. He never could quite get it right—there were always little tendrils escaping, framing his face.

“Now who’s the menace.” He groused.

“Love you, too.” Martin laughed. Without another word, he left, not seeing how his words froze Jon in a sort of rigor mortis. 

_Love you._

Jon lifted his hand to his mouth, pressing his lips into his knuckles. He bit into his thumbnail, a bad habit, the sharp taste of his chipped nail polish failing to give him any clarity.

Surely Martin just meant it casually—his assistants said it frequently enough during their juvenile tricks and squabbles. He was being silly. It was far too soon for—

_‘Bout time Jon realised what a catch you are._

That’s what Sasha had said. Apparently everyone but Jon knew Martin had been interested in him. How long had—Martin had mentioned he fancied him a bit, but—

“Knock knock.” 

Jon’s gaze snapped up as Elias strode into his office. A three-eyed crow perched on the shoulder of his ineffably tailored suit, its lavender feathers striking against the deep sage. Jon barely suppressed a snarl, hackles raised. 

“Just wanted to check in on you.” Elias said amiably as he closed the door softly behind him. “Please, sit.” He gestured to the desk with an open hand. This time Jon couldn’t restrain a soft growl, lips peeling back to bare his teeth. To be told what to do in his own domain, by the very man who had watched impassively as he was thrust into that infernal dimension sculpted by Lukas and his fellow wraiths—the man who hadn’t said a _word_ in his defense—

Elias merely arched a brow that was as perfectly kept as the rest of him. 

Jon sat behind his desk stiffly as Elias took the seat in front of it, crossing his legs in casual sophistication. He raised a hand to stroke the Seer on his shoulder. 

“I do hope there are no… _hard feelings_ about serving your time in Isolation.” Elias said smoothly. The crow pecked at one of the heavy rings on his fingers and he tutted. “You must know there wasn’t anything to be done. You _did_ violate the law. Whether I agreed with your dispatching of Ms. Perry or not is irrelevant.” 

Jon hated how reasonable Elias always sounded. Made him feel like a child who had fallen short of their potential and disappointed him. 

“You could have looked sorrier.” Jon said flatly.

Elias gave an aristocratic shrug. “What is done is done. It is up to you if you wish to mire yourself in the past or move forward. I trust you received Ingrid’s referral for therapy?”

“I did.” He had immediately crumpled it up with a shaking hand. It sat at the bottom of his waste bin.

“Very good. I urge you to use the resources available to you.” Elias nodded. “Captain Hussain and I have spoken at length and decided that your dossier should not be escalated, seeing as how your actions were made in haste and borne of a personal grudge, not wanton violence against another avatar, and nothing that put the discretion of our society at risk.”

“How generous.” Jon said dryly. 

Elias smiled, a small, chill thing. “Regardless of whether you return the sentiment, you are valued here at the Institute. You will be taken care of to the best of my ability. And my ability reaches far.”

The words sent spider legs down his spine, something about them making him feel… _owned_ in some fashion. He was well aware of the chasm between _cared for_ and _taken care of._

“Is that all, then?” Jon grimaced.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Elias glanced at his pocket watch. “I’ve some budgeting to do before I convene with the donors.” He got up, dusting off invisible lint. “Do come to me with any concerns. I’d hate for you to feel unsupported.” 

He had almost made it to the door, hand reached for the knob, when he took several steps back. 

Basira burst into the room. Jon had never seen her so harried. She was the steadiest, level monster he’d ever known. And here she was, wings quivering in her agitation.

“Captain?” Elias inquired, a rare tension in his voice.

“There’s been an encounter with an avatar of the Extinction.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my world Jon is Absolutely the type to panic when someone first tells him they love him, he would do something terribly uncomfortable like go for a high-five or say "thank you." ((But once he processed it, he would be finding excuses to say 'I love you' all day every day.)) (((Soft, stupid man.)))
> 
> I maintain that Elias is a character that in a game of FMK, you'd Have to smash, then Immediately kill him like a praying mantis.


	28. patty cake and other dark magics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Institute addresses the return of an Avatar of the Extinction, and the Archival staff plan for the worst.
> 
> CWs this chapter: threats of violence, body horror, terminal illness, bloodletting (self harm), blood pacts, loss of agency.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello u decadent cherry blossoms! I hope today is treating you like the national treasure you are! Thank you as always for supporting this endeavor. Your commentary always lifts me up and/or has me Dead, you're all so kind and funny. 
> 
> This chapter was an odd one to write, my only planning was "how would these fear monsters react to a monster they feared?" As it unfolded, I found that the Archival staff will protect each other every way they know how, and they all are as eager to kill this avatar as they are to avoid it.

The auditorium was alive with the sound of panicked buzzing.

This was the only space in the Institute where the entire staff across all departments could commune at a single point in time. Jon sat within a cluster of his assistants—and his partner. Was it too soon to call Martin that? Boyfriend sounded so _juvenile_ but to say they were merely dating didn’t hold enough weight. He was pulled from his trivial thoughts by the sound of Elias’s measured footsteps up the stairs and to the podium, closely followed by Captain Basira. The entire room fell to a silence so complete, the rustle of a moth’s wings would have been notable. 

“There’s no way to frame recent events as anything but alarming.” Elias intoned. He had a voice that was as mesmerizing as Jon’s lure, with exactly none of the arcane magic behind it. He had a voice you wanted to listen to, a voice you wanted to believe no matter what it was saying. “But I entreat you to stifle this alarm. There’s certainly no need to _panic_. We have survived Avatars of the Extinction before, as you well know. And we will survive them again.” Elias paused, taking in the room with a slow, steady gaze. “It’s been years since we’ve seen an avatar of the Extinction. Decades since there have been multiples of its kin. Almost a century since a ritual was attempted.” Elias clasped his hands together on the podium. 

“Of course, the Extinction is bent on manifesting itself through the destruction of others, ideally in a mass event. It is the purpose, as you all know, the reason all of us myriad avatars of the fear pantheon have not only entertained but actively fostered this truce—to prevent the Extinction’s ascendance and the keen sight of mortals. I assure you that the Institute will remain a safe haven. Wards upon wards metaphysical and otherwise have been set up and remastered, protections offered from every Entity. Containment is taking on volunteer agents. As you all know, under the Obsidian law every avatar has the license to kill an avatar of the Extinction on sight. In fact, it is the highest honour to die in the attempt or triumph of dispatching such a creature. I know together we will defeat this common adversary once more and prove to the Extinction that the only options are slumber and annihilation. And we are so fond of annihilation.” Elias turned to Basira, extended an arm. “Captain, if you would.”

Basira nodded sharply, taking up the podium as Elias relinquished it, walking to take a seat on one of the chairs on the stage. “Fellows.” She acknowledged. “As the Director said, we have seen this before and we have gotten through it. We’ll do it again.” Her wings fluttered in agitation, the tips alighting with her fervor. “As you know, this is a matter of sacrifice. But what is most important is that our gods will be served and there will be those of us to continue carrying the torch of heralding their perfection. I’m sure all of you have heard through the vine by now that the first sacrifices have already been made unwittingly. Mike Crew is currently in the Institute ICU, suffering from acute radiation. Dr. Hopworth is doing his level best and we have also called in a consultant of the Corruption to slow the decay of his soft tissue.” She swallowed once, hard. “Agnes Montague—beloved Priestess of the Cult of the Lightless Flame, may her flame burn brightly forevermore—is no longer with us. She was immolated by the avatar. Her ashes and bone remain at the temple of the Lightless Flame in the hopes, as a powerful Phoenix, she will rise again.” Her knuckles clenched around the podium, talons digging into the wooden face. “In the meantime, Brother Kingsley will serve as the intermittent Priest.” She shook her wings out. “Memos will be sent out with the full dossier of every known avatar of the Extinction, best practices for protecting oneself against them and slaying them, and forms for who should receive the funds provided under the Obsidian law if you should perish in the line of service.” 

She stood aside as Elias approached. “Remember, none of us is alone in this fight. I encourage you not only to lean on the others in service to your gods at this time, but to lean on your teammates and devise defensive, offensive, and contingency plans within your departments. That is all at this time.” Elias strode down the staircase and out of the auditorium. The buzzing came back in full force.

“What are we going to do?” Martin asked, voice dim.

“What can we do?” Tim asked. He worried his lip between his sharp teeth. They all knew he was only partially there, the other layers of his mind dedicated to Mike Crew, his—bedmate? Lover? Friend?—who was fighting to stay alive in Hopworth’s care. Jon could only imagine the peeling of the flesh, the burning skin, the hair falling out, the cycle of keloid scarring. He rubbed his thumb over his own thick scarring on his hand as a phantom sensation overtook it.

“Well. Contingency plan.” Sasha began. The usual sharp mirth that underlay her voice was absent. “You cross this avatar, you call me _immediately_ and I’ll come spirit you away with my door.”

“Sasha.” Jon said in a quiet reproach. “That’s blasphemy.”

“I didn’t say I would let the avatar run rampant.” She pierced him with a pinwheeling gaze, the sickening twirl of her neon eyes making him feel dizzy. 

Tim focused at that. He frowned, placing a hand over Sasha’s on the armrest, leaning into her static touch with only a slight grimace. Of all of them, he was nigh immune to the startling sensation of Sasha’s, well, everything. He hadn’t started out that way. “I’m not letting that wanker get you. If you fight, I fight. If you go down, we go down together.”

Sasha sniffed in fake offense, though her eyes were suspiciously bright. “Who’s to say I won’t win on my own?”

None of them could bring themselves to meet her weak bravado with equally weak banter. The last Avatar of the Extinction—and they were so rare, they were always overpowered—was taken down by a mob of avatars of various Entities and by the skin of their teeth at that. A whole new Containment force had to be formed. 

“Same for me.” Jon said after a moment of heavy silence, each lost in their own dire thoughts. “If you come across that damned avatar, you alert me as soon as possible and I will come to your aid.” Avatars of the Extinction brought about an acutely potent reaction from children of the Hunt. On the one hand, they threatened all that was theirs—their territory, their wards, their sheer ability to Hunt. On the other, the avatars were the Ultimate quarry. To wet one’s fangs with the burning blood of an avatar of the Extinction was almost as high an honour as becoming a part of the Everchase.

“If you would so deign,” He continued. “I would like to perform an exchange of blood so that I may be able to pinpoint your exact coordinates at any given time. I won’t use this ability except in the direst of situations.” He hastily tacked on. Despite his instinctual sense of his team being an extension of his territory, despite the part of him that was solely him that would do anything to protect these that he loved, he was loathe to infringe on their privacy.

“Can you not already do that?” Tim arched a brow. “You’ve exchanged blood with everyone except Sasha.”

“Well, actually.” Sasha chimed in. “I have partaken of his blood. It did absolutely nothing for me but his reaction to mine was well worth the exchange.”

“I’m so glad my pain was amusing to you, James.” Jon said sourly.

Sasha tutted. “Oh, don’t last name me. At least my entertainment made your pain not a complete waste.”

Jon gave her the look that signaled he was suffering fools and _not_ gladly. “Anyway. No, Tim, I cannot do that. None of you have consumed a sufficient amount of my blood nor I yours to do that. It would have to happen all at once, and there are a couple of other steps involved.”

“It doesn’t like—link our minds or something, does it?” Tim looked spooked. 

“No, for something like that you would need to be what’s called a thrall, someone who has a regular and longstanding exchange of blood with a vampire.”

“Hmm. Do you have any of those?” Martin asked too casually, picking at his nails. Tim spared him a sympathetic glance.

“No, not currently.” He hadn’t had any since university. They were rather a lot of emotional labour, actually, when you factored in the aftercare and relationship outside of exchanging blood. Besides, his lifestyle didn’t require the use of a thrall. He preferred to just hunt individuals as needed. Georgie had once described him as a ‘hit it and quit it’ kind of vampire. He had not been amused.

“Oh. Huh.” Martin replied, and Jon’s lips quirked at the relief visible even though his lover tried to hide it. 

“Okay.” Tim said after a beat. “I’m in.” He pointed his finger at Jon with narrowed eyes. “So long as you don’t pull any funny stuff. And if I start sleep walking around like a Postmates snack for you, I will kick your very kickable arse.”

Sasha snorted. “He’s a _vampire_ , Tim. You would be ribbons within minutes.”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Tim said confidently. “It would hurt him in his heart place to hurt me. His hesitation would tip the odds in my favour.”

“Timothy, professional decorum is the only thing that has kept me from eating you muscle by muscle since the day I met you. Do not rely on my fleeting fondness.”

“ _See_.” Tim crowed, triumphant. “He’s _fond of me_.”

Jon scrubbed a weary hand down his face. “Can we just, for a minute—humour me, please—pretend that I’m your boss?”

“Right-o, boss-man.” Tim saluted. “Would you fancy a report? I’m quite good at reports.”

Jon ignored Tim, turning to address the others. “Sasha?...Martin?” If he blushed easily, he would have, expression turning shy as he asked Martin. This kind of a blood bond wasn’t something they’d discussed before. Unless he’d read the full vampire dossier, he wasn’t even sure Martin knew that was something his kind was capable of.

“I mean…are _you_ sure?” Sasha asked, sober. “It will likely be deeply unpleasant for you.”

“You’re worth it.” Jon said without hesitation. Sasha smiled her true smile, too wide and too sharp, extending on and on, but it was infinitely soft as well, as soft as her kind could be.

They all turned curiously to Martin, awaiting his answer.

“Okay.” He drew out the word.

“You don’t—you certainly don’t _have_ to.” Jon floundered, trying to stifle the little pricks of rejection that began to drive at his heart.

“You promise not to—not to look for me if it’s not an emergency.” Martin looked away, and Jon wondered what could possibly cause this reaction. Did he not trust him to respect his wishes? Had someone deprived him of his privacy before? Where could Martin possibly go that he would want to keep it that close to his chest? 

Jon reached out and gripped Martin’s hand, waiting until he was looking at him. “I promise. I will never intentionally know something about you that you haven’t trusted me with yourself.”

Martin nodded with a firm resolve. “Alright. Let’s do it.”

“I would prefer to do it as soon as possible.” Jon said. He wanted every precaution in place and measure taken as possible to protect them. He cast a glance around. “And definitively not here.” The auditorium was almost emptied out—they were the biggest group left—but still, this was a rather intimate process.

Sasha held out her hand and hauled Tim to his feet. Martin stood.

“Alright, gang. Let’s make a blood pact.” Tim said, grinning mischievously.

When they returned to the Archives, Jon led them into the breakroom, shutting the door gently behind them.

“Ooh, we should light some candles.” Sasha said.

“That’s hardly necessary.” Jon spared her a glance as he settled onto the threadbare sofa that somehow managed to be in the running for the comfiest spot to sit in London. 

“It’s for the _aesthetic_.” Tim said, sharing a glance with Sasha as if Jon were being particularly dumb.

“Martin?” Jon looked for aid as his other assistants acted like children.

“I mean….it _would_ be quite atmospheric.” Martin shrugged an apology.

Jon barely maintained his composure as Sasha produced a tea light from the junk drawer. She placed it on the coffee table and lit it with much ado with a lighter.

“Perfect.” Jon said dryly.

“We may proceed.” Tim said with overplayed solemnity. Jon sincerely wondered why he hadn’t eaten all of them by this point. Elias could have given him Rosie. Rosie was a delight. Rosie didn’t require cutesy lighting at blood rituals.

“So what exactly does this entail? You said it was more than a simple exchange of blood.” Sasha clasped her impossible hands together, interlocking her unsettling fingers. Jon had tried to count her joints once. The number changed each time.

Jon whipped out one of his smaller switchblades from his pocket.

“Is that a knife or are you just happy to see us?” Tim asked, clearly amused with himself.

“It will always be a knife.” Jon said, deadpan. He gestured with said knife. “This is for me. I could tear my skin open with my teeth, it would heal the same, but it would be gross for you and unnecessarily messy. The order of operations is: I take your blood, you take mine, and then we cut ‘X’s’ into our palms and press them together.”

Sasha burst out laughing.

“What.” Jon said, torn between confusion and annoyance.

“Oh, oh my god.” She tried to speak through her laughter. “First of all, I’ve knitted a man a sweater of his own intestines before, you chewing at yourself isn’t even on the radar. Second of all! That’s so lame, Jon. Like, your arcane blood ritual is us playing patty cake with little ‘X’s’ as in ‘X marks the spot?’ Did a primary teacher come up with this?” Tim snickered and Martin loyally tried not to smile.

Jon growled with irritation. “So would you like the tether or not?”

Sasha struggled to school her face. “Yes, yes, yes. I apologise.”

She did not sound sincere but he let it slide because he wanted to get this over with. 

“Alright. Tim, you first.” Jon patted the seat beside him. He wanted as little drama as possible and getting Tim out of the way was paramount. He’d then cast Martin’s tether. Sasha would be last. Sasha had to be last, because Jon had no idea what would happen other than it would be thoroughly terrible. Just an ounce of her blood had left him unable to taste for a whole day. 

Tim sat down obediently. The atmosphere in the room turned serious as they all acknowledged the weight of what was happening, the intimacy and trust and permanence involved. He’d explained on the way that a tether could not be dissolved unless either party died. The further away they were from each other, the more the tether would dampen, but with focus, he would always be able to find them anywhere on the planet. He certainly hadn’t entrusted that capability with anyone but Georgie and Daisy before this.

He made quick work of it. He brought Tim’s wrist to his mouth, made a precise bite, and drank. When he was done, he made an efficient slash on his own wrist and told Tim to drink until he said ‘when.’ When the sufficient amount was reached, Jon murmured ‘when’ and Tim sat back, stained teeth bared in a grimace. 

“No offense, Jon, but that is some nasty stuff, even with the good chemicals. My brain says ‘ _ew_.’”

“Can’t be everyone’s cup of tea.” Jon said mildly as he cut an ‘X’ into each of their palms and Tim’s weight pressed into his own. The cuts healed quickly, Jon’s healing properties shared as their blood mixed. “Alright, next.” He gestured Martin over while Tim shifted his smooth palm this way and that.

“Can I find you, now?” He asked.

“No.” Jon said absently as he prepared to bite Martin. He would have much preferred the intimacy of feeding from his neck, but now was hardly the time to indulge. 

“Well that’s hardly fair.” Tim complained as Jon wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and guided Martin to the cut on his wrist. He answered Tim as he tapped against the bigger man’s shoulder.

“It’s not meant to be fair. More accurately, you can in theory find me, but I have to permit it. You’re more capable of a…tug of the leash. The other end is obscured unless I allow otherwise.”

“That’s rather patronising.” Sasha commented. “We’re not dogs.”

Jon threw his hands up in exasperation, causing blood to drip on his trousers. He scowled. “I am a monster, let me be monstrous.” 

“Fine, fine, fine.” Sasha raised her hands to placate him. “Valid.”

“You’re up.” He replied gruffly. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Martin murmured, laying a hand on Jon’s waist. He was instantly soothed by the touch.

“I’ll be fine.” He promised, though he suspected he likely wouldn’t be. “I’ll need to recline afterward, I’m sure.”

“I’ll stay with you.” Martin said firmly. Without waiting for a response, he wedged himself between Jon and the arm of the couch, dragging Jon like a puppy into his lap. Jon leaned against his thick belly, melting into the sensation of being guarded. 

“Out of respect.” Tim began, standing up and dusting himself off. “I will not watch whatever is about to happen. Because you’re being selfless, Jon. But I fully expect all the details later.”

Jon staved off the sarcastic response brewing because that was actually rather thoughtful and mature for Tim. The man was smart, but his tragic flaw was having the impulse control and decorum of a toddler running around with something in its mouth it should not have in its mouth. “Drink some orange juice.” Jon finally said.

Tim gave a lazy salute and poured two glasses on the way out, passing one to Martin, and leaving the jug on the counter.

Jon took a deep breath in preparation. 

“You can still back out.” Sasha said lightly. “Michael can likely find me in a pinch.”

“I won’t leave you up to the mercurial whims of the Distortion.” Jon shook his head. “Come here.”

Sasha daintily took the seat in front of him and proffered her wrist. 

“I think—I think we need a contingency plan, in case I can’t make it through this on my own due to any adverse effects. Sasha, if I’m incapacitated, cut my wrist and drink for a count of twenty. You can cut our palms. Martin can help if need be.”

“Whatever you need.” Martin confirmed uneasily. Jon appreciated him not trying to talk him out of this, even with the likelihood of him coming to some measure of harm. It was no surprise that above all, he was a control freak when it came to his own will and agency. 

He bit into Sasha’s wrist. His fangs slid in readily, but that was only a brief moment of ease. 

It was like biting into a livewire. He pushed through the initial sensation of his tongue being fried, sure he wouldn’t be able to taste for days if not weeks. But there was a point, mere seconds in, when he could no longer go on his own. Sasha’s impossible hand wrapped firmly around the back of his head, holding him in place, as Martin whispered sweet nothings to comfort him.

“Just another second. You can do this.” He said as he held him.

His vision blurred. It was like a disco if a disco was trying to melt his eyes out of his sockets. Neon and glittering lights buzzed through his brain and he could swear he could _taste them_. Suddenly there was a swipe of pain at his wrist, the pressure of lips, the—

He was holding out his hand, reaching like a ragdoll—no, he was being guided, the dead weight of his arm being supported by—

The white noise ached in his teeth, hummed in his chest. The lights were a rave in his skull, threatening to crack it open from the inside out.

A darkness crept forward, blessed in its crawling blankness.

He fell slack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at Jon being a proper, put together vampire for once! doing refined vampire things! a grumpy and sharp boy with a cotton candy heart that craves big violence!
> 
> everyone: drags Jon to the ends of the earth as he does all he knows how to protect them  
> jon: regrets not avoiding all this together by just eating his coworkers


	29. half lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Archival staff supports Martin during the death of autumn, and a surprise guest visits the Institute. 
> 
> CWs this chapter: maladaptive coping, seasonal depression, reflections on cruelty, minor body horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello u beautiful pumpkin spice fairies! I hope the universe is being kind to you and you are getting good vibes about this new season. It's starting to get colder where I'm at which is Dope bc I have! So! Many! Cardigans! And! Sweaters! and it's finally their time to shine beep beep we have arrived at Cozy Town. 
> 
> Ok so! This chapter! Kicked my ass! Partially bc my own seasonal depression has set in and I am just a floundering sea bass at the moment. But I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Also we are living in a land where the weather and seasons work however I want and u trust me bc I lived in England and it snowed on Easter so honestly everything is made up there anyways.

The first frost snuck in overnight. On the way to the Institute Jon slid and slipped and nearly fell down at least a dozen times, a melody of curses accompanying him up the steps, through the halls, and into the Archives.

“You look like a pile of scarves with eyes.” Sasha commented immediately as he walked in the office, wiping the residual moisture off his boots on the carpet.

He scowled in response, unreeling the top scarf and shaking out of his jacket. That left him in two scarves, a heavy knit jumper, and two pairs of thermal socks.

“Heating packets for you in your office.” She gestured with her hand. 

“…Thank you.” He said begrudgingly. He cast his gaze about the otherwise empty office. He could hear no heartbeats in the breakroom, nor down in Artefact Storage, though he imagined Gerry was likely there all the same, with his empty chest. “No sign of Martin?”

Sasha shook her head, a wistful slant to her pressed lips. “You know how he gets this time of year.”

“I do. Yes.” He ran a hand through his hair that was already ravaged from the sharp wind. “I was hoping…He’s not answering any of my texts. Or calls.” 

“Mine either.” Sasha said. “I made Tim a door. He’s trying to coax Martin to at least come in so we can keep him company.” 

Jon looked to the side, jaw working. It should be him who was fetching Martin, imploring that he not hole himself up in his flat while the change of seasons took its toll on him. He imagined Tim at Martin’s bedside, talking to him softly as Martin hid in his cavern of weighted blankets, surrounded by stilted buds, half-formed flowers. It was a yearly ritual, the week where the Green Man shed autumn and the acute seasonal depression took root in its place. Jon hadn’t been much help previous years, leaving it to Sasha and Tim to comfort him while Jon merely eased off, lowering his expectations of Martin even further than usual.

In summary, he’d been a hall of fame arse. No wonder Martin wasn’t answering him. 

“I should be there.” He said.

“Yes.” Sasha agreed.

There was a beat of silence. Sasha looked at him expectantly. He fiddled with his hands.

“So _go_.” Sasha said as if he were being particularly dense.

“What if he doesn’t want me there?” Jon asked, now actively wringing his hands.

“Jon.” Sasha said with forced patience. “This is about him, not you. You are his boyfriend. Go boyfriend.”

Jon coloured slightly. “Did you just use ‘boyfriend’ as a verb?”

“Yes and you’re stalling.” Sasha stood up abruptly, striding across the room. He fought the urge to flinch when she planted her hands firmly on his shoulders. She looked him square in the eye. “It doesn’t matter if you know exactly what to do. Just show up.” 

He looked back at her, the firmness in her gaze—not as if she were judging him, but lending him her steadiness. “Okay.” He nodded. “Okay.”

Her lips quirked. “Atta monster.” A lavender door appeared. She nodded toward it. “Now go bring my boys home.”

Jon took a deep breath. He could do this. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully. 

He opened the door and stepped through. 

Directly into Martin’s bedroom as it were, causing Tim to yell.

“Bloody _hell_ , Jon.” He pressed a hand against his chest. Jon could hear the uptick in his heartrate. 

“Sorry.” Jon offered a lax, one-shoulder shrug. “Sasha didn’t say exactly where the door led.”

Tim glared at the offending door, its cool lavender face impassive. 

“How’s—ah—how’s Martin doing?” Jon picked at his nailbeds with his claws. 

Tim tilted his head in the direction of the bed. There was a lump in the centre. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“Martin?” Jon’s voice broke halfway through. He was not suited to this kind of thing he was not qualified. He tried again. “Martin?” His voice sounded firmer.

There was no answer.

Jon glanced sideways at Tim, who gave him a sympathetic look. 

“I’ll just go make you a cuppa, okay, Marto?” Tim didn’t wait for an answer which wasn’t likely to come, anyways. He strode out of the room.

Jon made for the side of the bed, gingerly sitting on the edge. He frowned. The plants on the night table were encased in a thin veneer of frost. He suspected all the plants in the house were in the same dismal state. “Martin.” He said softly, peeling back the fortress of weighted blankets slowly. He stopped when he could see the top of Martin’s head. He was curled in on himself in a fetal position. Jon sighed into the silence. “Is it okay if I—may I join you?”

Martin shifted, finally responsive. “I don’t care.”

Jon braced himself, reminding himself to not take things to heart right now. He hadn’t dealt much with, with anything of this sort—he had bouts of melancholy, who didn’t, but he didn’t deal with this kind of…despondence. “Alright then. Here I come.” He felt rather dim, slithering his way into the heart of the fortress like a slug, the weighted blankets pressing down around him not unbearably, but uncomfortably. “Is it okay if I touch you?” 

There was a rustle of fabric as Martin shrugged. 

Jon shimmied further until he was loosely curled around Martin. He pressed his chin into the top of his head. Withered flora jutted into his flesh. Martin was absolutely freezing. Jon grimaced as he felt along Martin for his hands, which were tight against his chest. Jon was a patient hunter, rubbing circles into the back of the nearest hand until it blossomed open. He slotted their fingers together, suppressing a shiver. It was as if Martin had held his hands in a snowdrift, cold as the morgue at midnight. 

He pressed a kiss into the tip of Martin’s ear. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I should have—I should have been.” What he really meant, of course, was that he was sorry he was not brave. 

“It’s okay.” Martin whispered hoarsely. 

“It’s really not.” Jon clutched Martin against his chest a little tighter. “I wish I could—I don’t know—shift time for you. But this is just the dark bit, Martin, your flowers will come back, they always come back.”

“I know.” His voice was hollow.

“—But I know that doesn’t change right now, which feels awful, and it’s—it’s okay to sit with that for awhile.”

“It’s all dead, Jon.” Martin’s voice held the first bit of emotion, a mourning so soft that it made Jon’s teeth ache and stomach clench. Martin laughed, but it was a scornful thing. “It sounds so dramatic, y’know? Just one whole big cliché. But it’s true. I’m dead inside.” 

The Withering was common to all of the flora avatars of the Buried. All of the Green Men in employ at the Institute had a whole week of sick leave especially for it if they wanted to use it. It was common knowledge, but there was one thing to clinically know someone’s insides were barren and to see it in person. Jon remembered the feeling of ferns through Martin’s ribs, caressing them as he laid his hands on his lover’s bare heart. Understanding that they were brittle phantoms in his chest was a heavy knowledge. He couldn’t fathom the sense of loss, to one moment be bursting with life that was intwined with yours, that branched off of yours, that which you created and loved and grew within your own skin, and then the next have it wiped out with the harsh onset of winter. To be a Green Man without green.

It was once again being driven home how undeserving of Martin he was. He was pretty sure last year he’d just assigned Martin tedious data entry for the week. Something he would be hard-pressed to find a way to muck up and something that didn’t ask much of him. That was it that was the extent of his compassion.

He was different now, though. Right? 

“Oh, Martin.” He sighed into his hair, frost crackling against his lips. He continued to soothe the back of Martin’s hand, a hand made of hard-packed earth. “Will you come back to the Institute with us?”

Martin tugged his hand away, pressing it back to his chest as he curled even more in on himself like a roly-poly. “I want to be alone.”

“I know, I know. But self-isolating won’t bring your plants back faster, darling.” He worked his hand into the Martin’s nest of limbs, pressing his hand gently against his soft stomach, anchoring him. “I could…I could stay, instead.” And he would. He would lay in this little bubble of darkness with Martin as long as he needed, if that’s what he really wanted.

Martin squirmed. “No, you’ve got better things to be doing. More important things.”

“How about—how about you come keep me company? In my office.” 

Martin stilled. “I’d still just be a useless lump all day.” He muttered.

“You’ll be _my_ lump.” 

“Why are you even doing this, Jon? So much effort for…what?” Martin’s trembling fingers trailed up Jon’s arm, reaching back to cusp his cheek.

“Because you are mine, Martin. Every part of you. Even this part of you.” Jon said simply. “And I am yours.” There was a power in admitting that, in ceding himself. 

“I don’t get it.” Martin said quietly. “But thank you.” He sniffed. “I’ll um—yeah. I’ll come.”

“Splendid.” Jon said. He slowly worked the covers back, scouring them with light. Tim walked in just that moment, holding a mug with a maple leaf on it. It read “ _I Be-leaf in You_!” 

“Feeling up to tea?” Tim asked gingerly. 

Martin didn’t seem quite able to look him in the eye. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Always.” Tim said, chipper. He handed the mug over delicately then stepped back. “So what’s the verdict?”

“I’ll come with you.” Martin took a prolonged sip. Jon framed him from behind, Martin between his legs, Jon draped over him like an affectionate ragdoll. 

“Brilliant.” Tim beamed. “D’you want to bring anything with?”

Martin started to shrug, then shook his head. “Not really.” He said listlessly. Jon missed the incredible range of expression Martin usually had, a whole spectrum of vibrance, loud with life. But this was his Martin today, and he would take Martin any way he came.

They sat in somewhat companionable silence as Martin drained a bit more of the tea. When he was ready, he placed the half-drunk mug on the table and gathered himself up in one of the weighted blankets. 

At the last moment, Jon turned and snagged the book off the night table before following Martin led by Tim into the depths of Sasha’s door that wasn’t.

“There are those faces I missed.” Sasha smiled as they stepped back into the office. 

“Hey Sasha.” Martin mumbled.

Jon nodded to her and then Tim, silently thanking them as he took Martin’s hand. Sasha mouthed ‘ _you did good.’_

Jon closed the door quietly behind them. Martin looked around aimlessly. 

“I’ve a few statements to record. Will you be alright with that?” 

“Should be fine.” 

Jon nodded, turning to his desk. He put the book he was carrying down and nabbed a handful of statements and a recorder, slotting in a fresh tape. He flipped open the top file. 

“ _Statement of Francesca Merriweather, regarding what she refers to as ‘the nightmare quilt,’ a family heirloom that_ —” Jon trailed off, his Archivist voice petering out as he watched Martin sink into the armchair, wrapped up in the blanket, looking blankly at the wall. Jon resolutely clicked the recorder off even as static consumed him, putting it down and rising from his seat. He slid the book he’d taken from Martin’s apartment off his desk. 

__

__

Martin looked up, gaze focusing. “Why did you stop?” 

“I’ve better things to be using my voice for at the moment.” Jon pulled the chair facing his desk to align with the armchair. He crossed his legs and opened the book. 

“Is that mine?” Martin asked, brow furrowed. 

“You certainly wouldn’t find it on my shelf.” Jon teased. He flipped to a random page. “ _These, I, singing in Spring collect for lovers_ —” 

“Oh.” Martin breathed. 

They sat like that for over an hour, Jon’s voice a low stream of poetry, until Jon had to take a statement from a walk-in, at which time Sasha moved to the small seating area, sitting on the one sofa as she made fraudulent phone calls and played with Martin's hair. 

The work day was nigh done without a hitch—Martin never left alone, joining Tim to visit Mike in the Institute ICU and Tim running off Peter in the halls after he’d sniffed out Martin’s anhedonia—when Jon’s senses snapped into terrible focus, an assault of sulfur and much worse that could only be perceived as an acrid burning. 

The Hunt was a cacophony of his blood pounding in his head, of adrenaline shooting through his veins, of venom building, of horrid recognition. 

“No.” He whispered. 

He was so very hungry. 

_He was so very afraid._

He raised himself from his desk with trembling hands. “Sasha? Martin? Tim?” He called, feeling for them with the blood tethers. Martin was with Tim in the library. Sasha was in a place that wasn’t. He was blissfully and dreadfully alone. 

Jon stepped out of his office. 

“Hello Archivist.” The Extinction’s mouthpiece said through melted lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> So I wanted to write this from Jon's POV as kind of a marker of character development, but also as someone who both has depression and many loved ones with depression, I wanted to highlight that sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is just sit there in that sadness with them. It's ok if you don't have words. Your simple presence is powerful.


	30. from fear we are born and to fear we return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a peculiar statement is made and the Archival team squares off against the Avatar of the Extinction.
> 
> CWs this chapter: mild self-harm (in an attempt to save oneself), swears, blood, body horror, gore, mind control/compulsion, eco horror, betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello! Thank you everyone for your sweet reviews over the last couple of days. Things have been tough but I'm chugging along and your encouragement and concern were beautiful little fireflies in my heart. 
> 
> I think ?? There's about two chapters left in this story. Big emotions coming to a fic near you, prepare thine hearts. I will gently state for the record I am a hurt/comfort kinda creature so uh,, there will be....a Lot of Hurt and a Lot of Comfort.

“What do you want.” Jon uttered on a rushed breath. 

The Avatar tilted their head. It was impossible to tell their sex let alone gender. Their mortal flesh was a meaty ruin, their glamour peeking through in grotesque slivers and chunks. Half their face was melted, twisted in on itself, with lips that dripped down their chin. Neon veins ran through their true face, branching out from filmy eyes. Their hair was lush on the surface, a soft mint green long top and shaved sides. Beneath the veneer, their hair was bleached and tufted, revealing burnt skin in patches.

“I want to make a statement.” The Avatar grinned, revealing bleeding gums that stained their teeth. “That is your job, yes? What else would I want of you.”

Jon trembled lightly in place, live with adrenaline, hackles raised at the odds set against him. He could not take the avatar on by himself. He was a fine Hunter. Part of that meant sizing up other monsters. Meant understanding that on occasion, you were more prey than predator. He was about to do the reasonable thing—pull on his blood bonds and call for his chosen pack, his assistants— _his friends_ —to come to his aid. But as soon as he started to pull a keening buzz built up in his skull. 

“No.” He said through gritted teeth. “No, not this, not now.” Beholding pressed down on the pressure points in his mind, forcing through demanding pain, pain that lit up his nervous system. He gasped, leaning against the doorway to his office. The avatar’s eyes lit up with interest as he struggled. 

“Statement of—” Jon bit his tongue, drew blood that filled his mouth and painted his lips. “ _Statement_ — _damn you, Watcher_ —” His claws bit brutal moons into his palms, sinking into the skin. Jon’s hand faltered and he slid to his knees. “ _Statement of Ramsey Eve, finite prophet of the Extinction. Taken…directly—from—subject_.”

Ramsey closed their eyes, a placid smile on their macabre mouth. A charred flake of flesh filtered down to the ground. “Oh, hello, Beholding. What a curious sensation.” They ran a searching hand down their throat, no doubt feeling the unspooling of the Eye, something that invited knowledge, and, if denied demanded, and, if resisted, _ravaged_. The avatar didn’t test their limits, though, merely took a seat perching on Tim’s desk. “Every climax in history needs a record, no? Not that there will be a future generation to scour its pages, unravel its reels. But my god will have its witness. You see, Archivist, I am the forebearer of the end. The true end. The end beyond death, that rarely any other avatar has conceived of. The truest cycle of life. But I am not the one who lays the foundation, who unravels the blueprints, as all of you assume of us exiles, us pawns of the Final Hour, the Inevitable Silence.” 

Ramsey leaned back on their palms, legs swinging slightly. “I am the final seal that will set off a chain reaction. You will have your moment of feast, all of you. You lessers will find your soft apocalypse, sate your fangs and maws and blood on the greatest harvest yet. You will think you have transcended, that you have reached your heaven. And you will have. But it is merely a waxing apparition. The manna will run out. Once you burn through the mortals, raze your livestock, your gods will abandon you and you creatures spun of fear will be so very, very afraid. And they will sup on you until you are but faithful bones. Then your gods shall sate mine, one by one. Until I am the last of this dead planet, the final sentry of the solar system. Then I too will perish in exultant terror and Extinction will rise in ascendance, born into its empty kingdom. No longer fed, it will die a blessed death and the world will at last be perfection.” 

“ _Statement ends_.” Jon whimpered, voice an agonised croak. He dug his hands into the ragged carpeting.

The Watcher in its passive glory reveled in this offering, in turn offering Jon Knowledge and Sensation and Dread. He was used to reliving experiences that were, well, lived. This was his first taste of premonition, of promise that the Eye partook in as truth. It wasn’t overwhelming. It was _unbearable_. Jon clawed up his arms in desperate stripes, trying to tuck himself back into his own flesh, to leave the disembodied space of the future, of the anticipation of the avatar, of the unceasing pain they felt every minute of every day, flesh radiated beyond recognition, riddled with weeping sores that would never close, with keloid scars that claimed every inch they could of their mortal casing.

Ramsey sighed in satisfaction. “Thank you, Jonathan Sims. For your tribute, involuntary as it was. I haven’t felt such relief since—well, since I sizzled to death in that vat of acid.” They chuckled. 

Jon couldn’t get control of his breath. He was on the precipice of hyperventilating. He concentrated through his vision charring black, pulling savagely at his blood tethers. He felt them pull taut to the point of breaking (he had lied about them being irreversible, but they might as well have been—Hunters did not part with their bonds willingly). He felt the faint registers of surprise on the end of each, Tim and Martin now in the library. Sasha far away but also always impossibly close through her doors that weren’t. Daisy truly out of immediate reach, at the Estate of the Lord of the Chase, it was her day off. Even fainter, his extended Hunt pack.

“Well. That was my only business here, really.” Ramsey hopped off the desk, spinning lightly on the heels of their leather boots. Halfway to the door, they spun right round, a soft, pitying, _cruel_ smile on their face. “Oh, that was half a lie.” He strode to where Jon was still slumped against the threshold of his office. Took a knee beside him. Jon bared his teeth, fangs dripping with venom. The avatar merely tutted. “Being impolite will not help you, little Hunter.”

Ramsey extended their hand, wrapping it in a gentle hold around Jon’s left hand.

Jon _howled_.

His flesh bubbled down to the bone, scouring his skin and muscle and revealing the joints of his fingers, his knuckles, his—his vision went white-hot, ears ringing so loudly he couldn’t tell if he was still screaming or if it was someone else now, voice ripped raw and reaching to the ceiling.

“You won’t get that hand back.” Ramsey said, more an observation than an apology. “That’s why I chose your non-dominant hand.” They stood back up, glanced idly at the layer of Jon’s skin that had merged onto their own palm, huffed, then chewed it off. On their way to the door they called back over their shoulder. “Do enjoy the paradise of your damnation while you can.”

“ _Jon_.” 

Jon looked through slit eyes, barely registering the looming shapes in the doorway, in the hallway, spilling into the Archives.

He gave up, gave into the short-circuiting of his brain in his shock, the viscera that wept from his stunted wrist. He slumped fully to the floor, head bouncing against the rough bite of the carpet.

_Holding hands will be rather difficult_. He thought before he passed out.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The noise that came out of Martin’s throat was a true testament to everything aching and livid and _monstrous_ that nestled in his chest. He barged into the Archival offices, spilling out of the door that wasn’t Sasha had suddenly dragged Tim and him into. Elias was just behind them, undoubtedly Seeing the sacrilege that had walked into his domain. 

Tim called into existence an orb of ocean, blessed with concentrated pressure by the Vast. It enveloped the Avatar of the Extinction, who loomed over Jon, licking at their palm as they stopped in their tracks. They clawed at their throat, hands scrabbling as the world condensed around them. Sasha surged forward, unraveling her impossible anatomy, many-jointed hands widening, tips becoming razor sharp. Her mouth had too many teeth and all of them born to eviscerate beyond recognition. She plunged her hands into Tim’s abyss, fingers rending through the stomach of the foul abomination. Martin heaved, appreciative as the avatar choked and crushed and had their guts slit through like cake.

The mouthpiece of the Extinction smiled.

_Smiled._

They raised their hands, wrists visibly snapping, and all at once the orb dissipated in a cloud of steam that scorched the avatar red with blisters. Their insides hung loose and ragged from their stomach. But they did not falter.

Tim swore. Sasha let out an infernal howl that caused all of them to flinch. 

“In the end, the oceans unravel, returning to the sky to never be born again. They are burnt through with greed and oil and even the dregs are but salt to the under-earth. You make do with rivulets of water held close to your chest in your kiddie pool of a domain.” The avatar intoned. “And you.” They turned a pallid gaze on Sasha. “You twisted, ugly thing. This vessel is scraps slapped on a frame. Decorate this corpse as you like. Nothing can dispatch me.” 

Sasha made to charge the avatar but Tim held her back, wincing at the visible static that raised the hair on his arms. Martin could smell ozone.

Martin stepped forward, vibrating with furious energy. He summoned vines from within, barbed things that unraveled from his very centre, followed by the branches of his ribs and the glass of his heart, which shot out in arrows and shards to burrow into the carapace of the avatar. He called the tunnels through the floor, guiding the crushing dirt and the living stone and the things that slept in the ground and were not named. He could hear the shock around him as his barrage coalesced, secrets of the Buried revealed that he may well atone for later. 

Any price was worth it for Jon, even ending up sleeping in peaceless dirt, in being knitted through with vines, choked by the plants that used to adore him.

The avatar grimaced, forearm raised in defence against the thick splinters, which only caused them to drive in, peeking out the other side. They were not able to miss some glass that caught them in the eye. The avatar cried out. The lightless plants punctured their lungs, the tunnels beckoned his body down, down, down. No matter how big the avatar talked, Martin Knew he had done damage. The Eye’s gaze rested at the edge of his mind, whispering blindness and pain, unending pain that was always present, pain that could be exploited. His brain churned of its own volition, and he thought—if he could just get the avatar pinned through the joints like a beetle, he could behead the creature and steal its heart if he was quick enough. 

But he wasn’t quick enough.

His vines melted under the avatar’s touch, scoring the floor with acid as they fell. A portion of their arm sloughed off, strings of flesh dripping away from the places impaled by Martin’s ribs. The avatar looked at him levelly, fingertips pressed against their wounded eye.

“Oh.” They sang. “You’re a different breed aren’t you. But that won’t save you. If it makes you feel better, your kin _are_ special. The Buried is partly intrinsic to the earth, so when the world is reclaimed, part of you will remain, Green Man.”

“What the _fuck_ are you on about?” 

“Did you think the meteors during the Cretaceous period were a mistake?” The avatar shook its head. “I’m much too busy to give you a history lesson. Suffice it to say, all of our breed of sentience will be scrubbed from the earth in the final Extinction, and the world will heal and spin without us.” The avatar lifted a dismissive shoulder and shot Martin a sly look. “Maybe you’ll end up a pretty weed.” They flicked their wrist and one of the vines still linked to Martin mutated, turning foreign, something that would not listen to Martin, something that could not hear. It writhed its way back toward him, wrapping around him in coils that—oh my god _burned_ , sinking into his flesh with a condemning bite, weeping pockmarks appearing beneath their livid touch. He tore at them blindly, crying out as they bit his fingertips as they were pulled free grudgingly. 

Sasha charged, catching the avatar’s throat with her claw-like appendages, sinking them to the second knuckle, where they punctured through to the other side. “You talk too much and die too little.” The avatar released a burbled moan, crimson dribbling down their mouth, down their ravaged throat. They wrapped their hands around Sasha’s wrists and where they touched, their fingertips sank in, burning through layers of flesh. The scent of burned fat and fried electrical sockets choked the air. The avatar laughed wetly as Sasha reared back, her keening a white noised as she warped reality on instinct, reversing the damage before it could set in.

Tim let out an enraged cry, bearing forward, hands aloft and pressing down. The room felt heavier. “ _Fuck you_. This is for Sasha. This is for _Mike_.”

“ _Tim_.” Martin gasped. He was being indiscriminate with the Vast, filling their lungs with false water, drowning them with fake weight. 

Tim narrowed his eyes, reining himself in. The avatar bent alone. 

And they took step by agonising step, ruined flesh caving under the pressure, bones weak from radiation snapping and rebuilding in an ugly melody. When they reached Tim, they pressed a hand into his chest.

Tim scrabbled at his throat as he collapsed. His eyes rolled back in his head and he convulsed before he lay still, salt spilling out from behind chapped lips. 

The avatar rolled their eyes. “May I leave now? I’m done entertaining your futile efforts.” They didn’t react as Sasha bore down on Tim, pulling him into her lap and running her crooked hands down his face, crooning in desperation. 

Martin cast a wild look at Elias, who had merely been watching with calculating eyes. “If you’re done _spoon-feeding your god, we could use a little help_.” He still worked at the toxic thorns, rending them barb by barb from his screaming flesh.

Elias turned his attention to him with cold eyes and he couldn’t suppress an instinctual shiver, as if some celestial being had given him his full regard and found him sorely wanting. The Director shook himself lightly, canted his head. His eyes glowed light green, lit from within by Beholding. “You and I will have to speak of boundaries again, Mr. Blackwood. As well as the power you’ve been muting. I’ll not underestimate you again.” He made it sound like a threat. He turned his gaze toward the Extinction avatar. 

Martin had never seen Elias so ethereally naked as he did as the man held the eye of the avatar. His true face was perilously close to the surface. A halo of eyes surrounded his head, casting a sick illumination. Something like—tentacles?—writhed around his throat, down his front like a cravat. His forehead and cheeks were dappled with eyes of all sizes, all pitch black or pale, filmy green. His hands were covered in slick flesh like a cephalopod, with long, thin fingers that tapered into talons. 

“Hello, Architect.” 

“Abomination.” Elias dipped his head in cordial acknowledgment.

The avatar huffed. “Aren’t we all?”

Elias clucked. “Be that as it may. You have trespassed onto hallowed ground. You are in the seat of my god’s power. And I so look forward to exterminating the vermin that scuttles in.”

Martin panted amid the pile of lifeless, alien vines, no longer animated as he’d sacrificed the flesh of his palms in ripping them free of himself. He looked up through blood and sweat as he watched the exchange.

“Ceaseless Watcher.” Elias intoned, a supplicant. “As your humble servant I petition you—”

Martin’s breath caught. He’d only ever seen Elias passive, content to moderate, to mediate, to _Observe_. 

“—to withdraw your sight.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Elias watched with tepid emotion as Sasha and Martin collapsed, joining Tim and Jon in blank repose. He returned his gaze to the avatar before him, who looked on in bemusement.

“Your business here is done.” Elias said.

“It is.” Ramsey allowed, dipping their chin. 

“Do not ever set foot in my halls again without my blessing.” 

“I’ve no need of it.” 

Elias looked them up and down, then surveyed the state of the Archival offices. “Do stop dripping acid on my flooring. Though I suppose it’s about time to refurbish anyways. There’s no getting the flesh out of the carpet.” Elias sighed. “I didn’t budget that for this quarter. Inconvenient.” 

The avatar arched where a brow would be if it weren’t burnt hairless and ran through with nuclear-looking veins. The Rorschach patterns on their true skin shifted in amusement, rippling through the part of the pattern that served as their mouth, given as their true face only had those congealed eyes and slashes where a nose might once have been. 

“I’ll be seeing you. Though I’m sure not as much as you’ll be seeing me.” Ramsey offered with a chuckle that sounded like the crackle of a Geiger counter. 

When they had left, when Elias felt them leave the steps of the Institute, he turned back to his incapacitated associates. He crossed to Jonathan, kneeling and taking his left hand in his own. He hissed sympathetically. The wound was cauterised—that was as far as his vampiric abilities would aid him. Elias stroked the exposed bone, the fried nerves that bordered the edge of the destruction. He was sure the man would never feel in that hand again. 

“What bad luck you have with owning hands.” Elias mused. He dropped the appendage unceremoniously, then pressed his palm into the other man’s forehead. He focused, static humming through his mind like a purr. Beholding was quite pleased, indeed. He basked in his patrons approval, the gentle euphoria as he stole Ramsey’s statement from Jon’s overburdened mind. He stood, sated in the new Knowledge that he turned in his mind like shiny pence. 

He moved to the centre of the room and wordlessly bid the others back into consciousness. 

Tim sat up ramrod straight, then hunched over, a stream of water spilling off his lips, purging his raw throat of the salt that coated it.

Sasha blipped in and out of this dimension, a creature of static and then a creature imperceptible.

Martin rolled to his side, braced on his palms, then his head snapped up, zeroing in on Jon.

And the Archivist screamed and screamed and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramsey: I am here for both a good and short time
> 
> Martin: Elias u useless googly-eyed fuck


	31. the sheer proximity of stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Archives recovers from the Extinction and Jon and Martin get a moment of respite.
> 
> CWs this chapter: surgery, blood, minor wounds, physical intimacy/sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello u absolute shooting stars! I hope the universe is being kind to you. As always, thank you for joining me on this wild ride (idk it's more like spinning tea cups. bumper cars? with a lil bloodshed). Your support and encouragement makes my heart grow three sizes on the daily (please have mercy, I beg, there is no more room in my ribcage).
> 
> This chapter is just every bit of and kind of intimacy canon is never gonna give me tbh tbh. This fic is entirely self indulgent and I rule this realm and they will have Softness dammit!
> 
> S O. This chapter gets a lil spicy so if you're not down there is a summary in the end notes! This is the first explicit sex scene I've written and I could Feel my abuelita across the country suddenly get up and light a votive for me as I typed "cock." Shout out to Jacqueline R. who beta read the ace rep and zest for me.

Several weeks passed without incident, or at least without incident within the bounds of the Institute. There was no sign of Ramsey Eve. In the infirmary, Elias had said the avatar had gotten away, though injured. When Martin asked what had happened—the tail end of the encounter was… _blurry_ somehow, and every time he clawed at the memories, a stabbing pain hit the base of his skull. Elias had pressed his lips together sympathetically, which was even more jarring, honestly. 

“I’m afraid I might be to blame.” He’d said, long fingers tapping a tattoo into the side of his leg. “In an effort to incapacitate them, I had to use some of my patron’s more…unknowable abilities. Not all minds can weather the strain and protect themselves how they can.” Martin wasn’t _entirely_ sure, but it rather felt like he was being called weak. Or stupid. 

Martin had stayed in the infirmary until Jon was out of surgery. He’d watched him writhe and sweat and gasp his throat hoarse. Hopworth hadn’t been able to save the hand. He’d been able to provide a skin graft—Martin didn’t think too hard about the source, because there were several options and each worse than the last—and Elias had called in a favour to the Web, which led to Annabelle Cane spinning the flesh so finely you couldn’t tell it wasn’t Jon’s original skin, other than for the fact it was two shades paler. She also spent several long hours finetuning it so that Jon wouldn’t lose any dexterity. 

Jon, once free of the daze of painkillers, had held the alien hand up to the light. Martin couldn’t fathom what to call the expression on his face, but it cinched his soul. Jon had turned to look at him then, lips ticked up at one corner in a wan smile. “Just one more bit broken, eh?” 

He had worn a black leather glove over it every day since.

Things fell back into pattern at the Archives, purging the backlog of the Mortal Nonsense file boxes, updating dossiers, committing petty crimes. The only differences were that they had a new carpet—that Jon disdained on principle because he wasn’t consulted about it and it was _his territory_ —and that they had to go in pairs for fieldwork because avatars from several entities had begun disappearing. 

Now on the cusp of true winter, it was time for the annual Donor’s Ball, which was profanely luxurious and painfully mandatory. 

At least this year Martin had Jon.

_(This year he had Jon!)_

The night of, they coordinated so that they could get ready and arrive together. When the bell rang and his porch poinsettia whispered Jon’s arrival, Martin jolted.

Martin approached the door with an inexplicable buzzing in his heart. Why was he so nervous? After the initial shock of it all, he was quite cosy with the concept of him and Jon, though still nonplussed about how it had come about. It wasn’t that he was nervous about showing up together—he was proud to. 

He felt like he was back in his last years of school, nervously asking a boy to a holiday formal. When he opened the door, his thoughts became white noise and he could think of nothing else but Jon nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot on his doorstep.

Jon was—it wasn’t enough to say _beautiful_ or _hot_ or even the cinema standard, _breathtaking_ (though his lungs did indeed seize up for a moment).

“Jon, you look—” The pause lingered and Jon arched an eyebrow, expression somewhere between apprehension and daring. Martin just shook his head, giving up on picking an adjective out of the pile. “Wow.” He settled on. 

The soft challenge bled out of his expression and into shyness as he ducked his head. He coughed a little. “Ah—thank you.” 

Jon was wearing a sapphire blouse with draped sleeves, dotted through with small embellishments of golden thread that gave the impression of stars. It was paired with a high-waisted skirt that must have been tailored, it fit so perfectly. It was a long black number that ended in a bit of fringe, which could have looked gaudy except it was Jon. Martin almost squealed at how cute his boots were, but he decided to retain a sliver of dignity, he was sure he’d need it later. For all he typically dressed like a professor with tweed jackets that had sleeves slightly too long or short, vests that always hung a tad too loose—

He was a marvel.

“May I—” Jon coughed lightly, tugging his thick jacket closer around his thin frame. “Might I come in?”

“Oh!” Martin exclaimed as he took several steps back. “Yes, of course, I’m so sorry—”

Jon strode inside like he owned the world, then drew up short in the middle of the living space, not sure what to do with himself. Thoughts other than how _wow_ Jon was slowly filtered back in.

“Jon!” Martin squeaked, which caused the other man to jump slightly and look alarmed. “We’re meant to be getting ready _together_.” He looked down at his bare feet, assessed his joggers and his shirt which was—which was inside out!—and groaned. “You look like you’ve walked off an editorial shoot and I look like I’m about to meet the Sandman.”

“I would be careful about that one, I think he might be real. I’ve recorded a statement or two about him.” 

“Not the point, Jon.”

Jon pouted. “We _are_ getting ready together.” He pointed toward himself, gesturing at his loose bun. “I haven’t done my hair yet. And I haven’t _accessorised_.”

Martin shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Jon huffed. “We have plenty of time. And even if we didn’t, I’d go with you as are. Fuck the dress code.”

Martin glanced at the floor, blushing. “You’re just saying that because you hate parties and don’t want to go alone.”

“If it weren’t for you, I’d be going with Daisy.” Jon pointed out. “But I want it to be you, Martin.”

Martin’s blush deepened to a nice oven heat, perfect for baking and being terribly embarrassed. “Alright, alright.” He flapped his hand. “Now you’re being too nice, I’m starting to suspect the Stranger. Let’s get on with it.” 

Jon trailed him to his bedroom, where he primly sat on the edge of the bed, jacket strewn beside him, while Martin retrieved his attire for the evening. He would be wearing his nicest suit, one he’d splurged on after he’d gotten his first restitution from the Institute for endangerment outside his job description (Lukas had tricked him into the Lonely because he wanted a snack and the vending machine was out of those little packets of jammie dodgers he liked). It was a dark green suit that he was going to pair with a tie he'd gotten to match Jon, a dark blue with subtle gold embellishments.

Martin led the way to the wash closet. He hung the suit on the hook on the back of the door and claimed a space of the counter. Jon retrieved a small cosmetic bag and dumped it unceremoniously on the counter, spilling golden hairpins and mascara and _was that an ear cuff?_ His painted fingernails—deep blue, Martin noted, when Jon wanted to, he was incredibly dedicated to the finer details of his appearance—riffled through the wreckage, selecting several hairpins. He released his hair from its sloppy bun, free to fall until it crested his shoulders. 

“You’re wearing it down?” Martin asked.

Jon spared him a glance. “Yes, I don’t feel like doing anything too complicated and if I’m roped into staying longer than I’d like, I at least want to avoid a headache on top of it.”

Martin hummed. He set to work on his own hair, an entire ritual when it came to his curls. He couldn’t help but keep stealing glances at Jon however, captivated by the pins stuck in his mouth as he worked simple but elegant braids into the crown of his hair. Gold began to peek through, and Martin couldn’t suppress a little gasp when he was done. 

“…What?” Jon asked, glancing at him askance. “Why are you staring. You’re making me nervous.”

“Jon you have absolutely no idea the effect you have on people.” He shook his head.

“Oh I’m quite sure I do.” He drawled, raising an eyebrow. “It typically ends in resentment and occasional maiming.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “You have no idea the effect you have on people when you don’t open your mouth.”

Jon huffed a laugh. His fingertips brushed the worm scars that stood out against his brown skin, then alighted them gingerly on the streaks of silver in his hair which Martin adored. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Martin hmphed as he returned to his work, shimmying out of his T-shirt. It took him a moment to register that he didn’t feel self-conscious around Jon like he did around some of his previous partners and, ah, _trysts_. He glanced down at his soft belly, muscular under the rolls. He reached for his undershirt, pulling it over his head. He rolled his scentless deodorant on—he really couldn’t stand any of the fake scents on his skin, they made him break out and the Buried was insulted by all the false pine and fake roses the market offered. He noticed Jon sneaking glimpses at him and he froze mid-swipe. “Now what are _you_ staring for?”

“What?” Jon scoffed, unrepentant as he ran lip balm over his chapped lips. “Am I not allowed to be affected?” 

“No.” Martin deadpanned. “Stop that.”

“I shan’t.” Jon stuck out his chin defiantly. “I will ogle you and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” He suddenly looked sheepish, tugging at the ends of his hair. “Ah—unless it really makes you uncomfortable and then I’ll stop posthaste.” 

Martin’s heart surged with fondness. “No, it’s okay. It’s….nice.” 

Jon hummed. “Well. Good then. Expect more of it and no apologies from me.”

Martin grinned and they settled into a companionable silence for a few minutes, that ended abruptly when Jon set to swearing, followed by a tiny metallic clink.

“Martin.” He whined in exasperation. “Will you _please_ assist me with this _damned_ cuff because it has become possessed with a spirit that _hates_ me I’m sure of it.”

Martin chuckled as he retrieved the cuff, perilously close to having been swallowed by the drain. “Alright, then, turn to me.” Jon obediently turned and Martin tenderly repositioned his face so he could get easier access to the ear. He slid the rebellious cuff on. Jon chuckled as it slid home, glinting in the warm lighting of the bath. “Now what?”

“Your tongue was poking out. It was precious.” He rested his hands on Martin’s shoulders, beaming up at him before lifting slightly on his toes to press a kiss onto his lips. 

Martin kissed him back, hand wandering to the small of Jon’s back, heart full of tenderness and—“Oh, fuck, sorry.” He stepped back, averting his face. “Got a little um, a little excited over here.”

“You don’t have to apologise for an _erection_ , Martin.” Jon said, amused, glance sliding down at the traitorous appendage.

“Just—I’ll be right back I just need a second to, ah, um, to calm down.” He ran a hand anxiously through his hair. “Think of some angry hornets or weed killer or global warming or something.”

Jon canted his head, patient and amused. “Martin.” 

“—oh I know, you know what is _perfect_ for this problem is watching videos of fire ants eating—”

“ _Martin_.” Jon interrupted with fond exasperation. “You being physically attracted to me is not a _problem_ to be solved.” His hand trailed down Martin’s stomach, palming his bulge with intent. Martin sucked in a gasp, stilling like a deer about to be hit by a semi. “And there’s a much more pleasant way to address the situation, as it were.” His loose grip became stroking and Martin actually might also be having a stroke. “I’d rather like it if you _didn’t_ calm down.” His voice dipped.

“But—we’ve talked about this you’re not interested in—and that’s _fine_ I don’t want to you—” His words broke off as Jon’s grip tightened and his hips stuttered. 

“I said I wouldn’t ever _initiate_ , not that I wouldn’t enjoy it if _you_ did. Whether you meant to or not.” He said, glancing down with amusement. He closed the already impossibly minute space between them, his reconstructed hand pressing against Martin’s back, grinding casually as he spoke. “I admit I don’t think often of you touching _me_ but I _have_ thought of how we’d fit together, how you’d look as I touched you.” 

“Jon.” Martin’s hand clenched and unclenched uselessly, before emitting a low groan and submitting to grinding back, unable to resist. “You can’t just _say_ things like that.”

“Oh no, however will you stop me.” Jon said. 

“You are a bad man Jonathan Sims and the law will find you.”

“Mm.” Jon hummed. “Actually, I’m a _monster_.” He slipped out from under Martin and Martin immediately felt the loss. Jon cast a glance over his shoulder, as he walked away, boots clicking against the hard floor. “I hope that won’t stop you from coming to play with me.” 

Martin watched as he turned the corner, clicking away down the hall. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

He followed.

Of course he followed, because he was a weak creature and how do you say no to what you’d thought of on and off and mostly on for actual _years_.

Jon was waiting on the bed, heels tipped over at the foot of it. He sat back comfortably against the headboard. “I guess I should have asked.” He stated with a trace of remorse. “A boner,”—Martin choked—, “is not consent. We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I’d never pressure you for the sake of my curiosity. And my—hmm, my desire to pleasure you.” 

Martin had once read somewhere that the greatest aphrodisiac was to be desired. He was not about to argue. Martin slipped onto the bed with a slowly building confidence that this—this is what Jon wanted and it wasn’t selfish and he was _allowed_ to want him.

“I _do_ like to be touched, you know.” Jon said as Martin lay, tense, by his side. “And to feel.” He trailed a long finger down Martin’s bare arm, encircling his wrist and bringing Martin’s hand to rest on his hip. “Being asexual doesn’t mean not being able to feel pleasure. For me, at least. It’s more of a spectrum, you know.”

“I—I know. At least in _theory_.” Martin stammered. His hand flexed on Jon’s hip. “I just worry—I don’t ever want you to do something just for _me_ , something you don’t want to do.”

Jon smiled, then lifted a shoulder. “Considerate, as always. But you don’t need to worry about that. I won’t do anything I don’t want to. I won’t make myself uncomfortable for anyone. Not even you, Martin.” 

Martin breathed a sigh, letting out all of his pent up confliction. “Alright. Good. I’ll trust that.”

“With that settled, I’d quite like it if you were kissing me again.” Jon suggested.

_Oh_. Martin propped himself up on his elbow, adjusting so he could drop soft kisses on Jon’s lips. He could feel the smile beneath them. They kept at that for awhile, exchanging slow, unhurried kisses that deepened gradually, like going from testing the water to wading out. And then Jon had to go and bite Martin, tugging at his bottom lip, and Martin was, at the root of it, a simple creature and it set him off, his kisses becoming heated. 

He pulled back, breath heavy, struck by seeing his want reflected in Jon. “Ground rules.” He breathed out. “We should talk about.” He gestured wildly with a hand. “Those.”

Jon lifted his brows, and with his wavy hair spread loose across Martin’s pillows, those silver streaks turned to moonlight, Martin was about to roll over and bury his face in his hands because it was too much, the affection and the beauty and the _need_.

Jon lifted a hand up to caress his cheek, soft until he tugged, forcing Martin to look at him. “Don’t hide from me.” There was no paranormal command in it, no lull, no static, but Martin was captivated all the same. Jon’s hold gentled once again. “I don’t like penetration. I know there’s a whole to-do about it and—” He huffed. “I don’t need to explain myself. I don’t like it.” He canted his head. “Well. I do like a cock in my mouth on occasion. But just that.”

Martin spluttered. The Archivist was not supposed to talk like that. The only scenario he could imagine him saying the word was in the context of him sighing heavily, telling the other assistants about how Martin had cocked something up again. “Well, what—what do you like? What do you want?” 

“I want to feel you on top of me, for one.” 

“Jon. I’ll crush you.” 

“I’m not made of glass, Martin.” Jon beckoned Martin with a tug on his hips. “I suspect—I suspect it will feel safe.” When he looked up at him, half entreating and half demanding, Martin gave in. He straddled Jon slowly, mindful of where he distributed his weight. Jon made an impatient sound. “There. Good. Hypothesis correct.” He sighed. “Now what do _you_ want.”

“Can I—can I just—explore you a little?”

“Be my guest.”

Martin dipped under the waist of Jon’s skirt, running his thumb over his hipbone. Jon made a pleased noise. He readjusted himself—he could now feel Jon had a semi—and pressed his weight into the headboard through his palm, leaning to run a hand through Jon’s hair, carefully avoiding the braiding. He trailed down, thumb pressing against his jaw, fingers testing his throat, running along the soft fabric of the blouse until it tapered at his waist. Feeling a bit braver since Jon seemed to like it—him practically purring was a pretty sure sign—he untucked the blouse and slid a hand under, resting his hand flat against Jon’s stomach.

“Is it like you’ve imagined?” Jon murmured, eyes half closed as he arched into Martin’s touch, encouraging him to stroke his stomach softly. 

“Better.” 

Jon smiled, sliding his own hand beneath Martin’s undershirt, thumb pressing gently beneath his navel. Martin flinched at his cold fingers and, ah, twitched elsewhere for other reasons entirely. 

“Can I—” 

“Yes?” Jon asked.

“Can I, ah.” He swallowed. “Get under there?” He gestured vaguely towards Jon’s skirt.

Jon laughed and Martin flushed. “You don’t need to ask for permission to enter, you’re not a vamp—oh, that’s funny.”

“Oh, shut up.” Martin snapped without much heat.

“Make me.” Jon beamed.

Needing no more permission, Martin rucked the skirt up to Jon’s thighs. He tested his hands against his exposed waist, ran them along his outer thighs. Looking at Jon to make sure he was okay with where things were going, he slowly shimmied his pants down. He stroked a finger along his cock as he pressed kisses into his inner thigh and Jon made a beautiful little gasp. Martin nipped. He bit down, harder than intended, breaking the skin. When the taste of iron hit his tongue, something stirred in him that he didn’t recognize. He ran his tongue along the wound, feeling an odd sense of wholeness, wellbeing. Once his brain caught up with him, he reared back.

“Shite. Sorry. I didn’t realise—” He trailed off at the look on Jon’s face, heavy-lidded and fond.

“Don’t stop.”

“Oh.” _Oh_. He brushed his lips against the slowing bleeding, nipped the wound lightly in a way that made Jon jolt. He kissed the base of his cock, pressed soft, reverent kisses up to the head before taking it in his mouth. He was satisfied by Jon’s sharp hiss. He sucked languidly, teasingly, and when Jon made an impatient noise, he only went slower, before having mercy and digging his nails into the other man’s hip and really going to work. Martin was filing away each new noise of Jon’s into a directory in his mind to enjoy later. Jon fisted a hand in his curls and began to push back in slow thrusts. Martin made a noise deep in his throat, closing his eyes. He loved being used for Jon’s pleasure, giving everything up of himself without any aims or motives other than making him feel good and loved down to every cell in his body.

“Martin.” Jon grunted. “Do you want this?”

There wasn’t a great way to say ‘give me even more’ so he just braced one hand on Jon’s thigh and reached the other to stroke gently down his side. Jon clasped their hands together, rubbing jagged circles in his palm. 

“Ok.” He breathed, with effort. “Okay, if we keep doing this—I’m not going to be able to hold off much longer. It’s ah, it’s been awhile and it’s, ah, it’s _you_.” He released the back of Martin’s head and Martin pressed a sloppy kiss into the junction of his thigh before dragging himself up by his elbows.

“Christ, Jon.” Martin kissed him on the mouth, something deep and achingly soft. He held his face in one palm, savoring the light sweat of their efforts. “My mistake for ever thinking you might have the soul of a blushing virgin.”

“Me? You are practically a sentient blush, I was the one caught unawares.” Jon huffed a chuckle, gazing up at him fondly before giving delicate attention to his lips. He coaxed Martin down to press a kiss into his forehead, sighing. “Alright, then.” Before Martin had a chance to do much of anything, Jon rolled on top of him, pinning him into the mattress. Martin did not know how Jon managed it, but he looked both painfully adorable and sexy with his skirt askew, hitting him mid-thigh as he straddled him. “There are so many ways to make you unmistakably mine, Martin Blackwood.”

“I want them all.” Martin breathed, which caused Jon’s gaze to sharpen, those catlike slits intent.

“Imagine my surprise, that I feel the exact same way about you.” Jon pressed against Martin’s mark on his thigh, shivering. Martin felt a surge of pride, that this wonderful, difficult, guarded man wanted to be declaratively his just as Martin wanted to be Jon’s. What a wild, heady change a year could make. 

Jon made quick work of trailing bites down Martin’s neck, not deep enough to leave marks, just sharp impressions, there and then gone. He paused. “Could you, hm, take these off?” He held a pinch of the fabric of Martin’s joggers. “And—this, too.” He tugged at the hem of his undershirt. “I want to see every inch of you.” His voice became husky. 

Martin quickly obliged, pressing down the last vestiges of shyness, of insecurity about his body. Martin was loving himself better and this was Jon. Jon who wanted to lay claim to every part of him, to cherish him and protect him and consume him whole. 

“Oh, Martin.” Jon sighed when he was laid bare before him. “You’re radiant.”

Things were a bit of a blur after that, a mosaic of quick heated kisses and tenderly drawn out ones, of memorizing each other’s bodies, how they fit together, discovering how to touch each other to make them feel safe and glowing and ravaged. Jon hit a particularly sensitive spot and Martin moaned.

“ _Jon_.”

“Yes, Martin?” Jon asked sweetly, innocently, as he perched above him. “Can I do something for you, darling?”

“Please.” Was all he could manage, nerves alight, everything too much and not enough.

“So polite, but I’ve no idea what you’re asking for.” Jon mused, much more of a cruel tease than Martin had bargained for. He thought back on all his errant daydreams, the softer ones where he was the one causing Jon to blush and beg. What a bloody idiot he’d been. Jon trailed his fingertips down Martin’s tummy, grinding down into him with agonizing movements that made Martin’s mind go hazy and sideways. 

“You’re—a—Monster. Y’know.” Martin bit out. “Absolute—hngh— _terror_.”

“So I’ve been told.” Jon agreed, unrepentant.

“I need—”

“Mm?” Jon hummed. “What do you need, love?”

“—I need you inside me.” Martin collected himself enough to say.

Jon’s gaze focused so intensely if Martin had any breath left to take, it would have been robbed without remorse. Jon leaned back, urged Martin until he was in a suitable position. The pressure of Jon’s prick against him was almost too much, but he bit his lip, determined to hold out. 

“Please tell me you own lube.” Jon stilled, at a loss. “It is my heartfelt intent to wreck you, but not that badly.”

Martin let out a bewildered huff. Who would have thought Jonathan Sims, proud Archivist, eternally ruffled but prim, had a mouth like that? “In the nightstand.”

Jon retrieved it, lathering it on. Martin knew from his history of boyfriends, hook-ups, and friends with benefits that this part could be a painfully awkward interlude, but it was as if they’d done this a hundred times, Jon speaking as if this was a regularly scheduled break. “So you’ve had frequent company?” He asked, genuinely curious but also too casually. 

“Oh, yes. Droves of ‘em.” If Jon could tease him, Martin could give it back with interest. “Different flavour each day of the week. Just a couple months ago I had this one bloke, prettier than I typically go for, but my god how he wore stilettos like he’d been born for them.” Hale had, in fact, been a sight to behold. 

Jon growled and Martin laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m sure if you so deigned to wear heels, you’d have him beat.”

“More of a thigh-high type of bloke, myself.” Jon said evenly.

Martin sputtered. “You’re kidding.” He whipped around to look at Jon when he didn’t elaborate. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Regrettably for you, you’ve no way to know.” Jon smiled cheekily. “Are you comfortable, darling?”

Martin nodded, blush returning in full force. 

“Oh, good.” Jon said, the only prelude before he entered Martin slowly. “Is this alright?”

It was hardly overwhelming, the simple act of it—this was neither his first nor second rodeo, as it were, but the sheer fact that it was _Jon_ , impossibly, devastatingly Jon, that made the difference.

“Are those good noises?” Jon exhaled in half a laugh. 

Martin nodded into the pillows.

With his assent, Jon settled into a rhythm, each thrust deeper until Martin could only think of the press of fabric under his face and how full he was of the man he was sure he was more than half in love with. Jon’s claws bit into the skin of Martin’s hip and it was crossing the line between pleasure and pain but Martin wasn’t willing to change a thing about the moment. It was everything he never thought to ask for and certainly didn’t think he deserved. 

When Jon came, Martin followed soon after, the former collapsing onto Martin’s back, languid and spent. Martin didn’t have enough of a mind to be embarrassed about the way flowers blossomed around them, cherry blossoms softly drifting onto the duvet.

After a moment, Jon rolled onto his back beside Martin, and they gravitated toward each other, breath still laboured. Jon lazily dragged his fingertips down Martin’s flushed cheek.

“That was—hmm.” Jon let his hand flop to the mattress. He looked blissful, more at ease than Martin had ever seen him.

“Yeah, that.” Martin agreed, taking his discarded hand and threading their fingers together. 

“Does this happen often?” Jon took a palmful of cherry blossoms, looking charmed.

“Just for you.” Martin murmured.

Jon stilled, looked back at him, smiled, and wordlessly threaded a blossom into one of his braids. 

Martin took a moment to just drink him in—the tousled hair, the errant strands of black and silver hair plastered to his forehead, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the warmth radiating from within. 

They spent awhile in a soft, easy daze, content in their nearness. It was Martin who eventually broke the silence. “We should clean up, maybe?”

Jon made a noncommittal noise. At Martin’s prodding, Jon peeked up through slit eyes, a half-smile resting on his face. “I rather like just laying here. Letting ourselves be lazy and messy. Indulge me.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Whenever have I not?”

Jon hummed smugly, tucking himself into Martin’s chest, and Martin perched his chin atop his head. Martin stroked along his arms, tracing hearts against his skin. 

Then he huffed a laugh. “You do realise this is the _opposite_ of getting ready together.”

He meant to humour Jon for a bit then get up, but they fell asleep like that, nestled into each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Abuela.
> 
> Monster!Boyfriends!Monster!Boyfriends! (ft. jon in a skirt bc jon in a skirt can only be taken from my tiny dead gay hands). 
> 
> me finishing this chapter: they're gonna think martin comes flowers they're gonna think martin comes flowers MARTIN DOESN'T COME FLOWERS HE'S JUST REALLY HAPPY OK HE'S NOT OUT HERE SHOOTING HYDRANGEAS 
> 
> summary for those who skipped: ramsey is still on the prowl, avatars are starting to disappear, and jon and martin get lucky.


	32. heavy is the head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is much merriment and Elias's true intentions for the Institute are revealed.
> 
> CWs this chapter: mention of sex, mention of alcohol, mind control/compulsion, canon-typical elias fuckery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello sweetest of beans! I hope things are cool calm and casual on your end and life is being good to ya. Thank you as always for continuing to accompany me on this journey.
> 
> Soooo I'm not gr8 at estimating how long each chapter will be, but I am definitely in the home stretch and final arc of this fic. I would adore to hear your theories on where this is going. I will say I am Shooketh by the latest episode because this plot I've been planning for months turned out to be a bit prophetic.
> 
> I can barely! Keep my eyes open! Because benadryl and melatonin! So please excuse any mistakes in the text.

Jon awoke with a jolt, body tense, all the languid peace in his body evaporated. He felt wired and he was vaguely aware of a slight trembling in his frame, a buzzing in the back of his skull. Beside him, Martin writhed uncomfortably before sitting up, rubbing the heels of his hands against his eyes in forceful motions.

“Jon?” He asked, sleep making his voice low and hoarse.

Jon distractedly placed a hand on his lover’s knee, which was bare, his legs having kicked out of the nest of blankets they’d curled in on each other in.

“I feel—something’s off.” Martin’s fingers sank into the flesh of his arm, clay skin yielding as he dug in.

“Yes, I as well.” Jon trailed off. “How long have we been asleep?” 

Martin retrieved his phone from the nightstand. “Shite. It’s been hours.”

Jon frowned, crawling to the edge of the bed and dangling so he could retrieve his own device from his purse. He blearily looked at the text on the screen, eyes burning against the brightness, and then swore when he noticed the notifications trailing across the top of the display. “ _Fuck_. I’ve missed texts from Daisy, Georgie and—and three calls from _Elias_.”

Martin sharpened, the dregs of sleep sloughing off his body. Jon didn’t need to look to Know. “From Elias?”

“Several texts, too.” Jon’s frown deepened as he scrolled through them. “He wants to know where we are. Reminding me of how the Donor’s Ball is mandatory for all departments.” His frown became a scowl, lips ticking up to bare his teeth. “And that especially considering recent events, it’d be in my best interest to do all I can to get back into the good graces of the donors, who are less than pleased that a head of a department is a…felon.”

Martin came up behind him, lacing his arms around his middle. He immediately sank back into the embrace, the soft cushion of his stomach, a tactile comfort he wasn’t used to having and would burrow into at every opportunity. “Oh, fuck Elias.” Martin said. “As if he hasn’t killed anyone. I’m half-convinced he keeps his true form Unknowable because he’s a gross mess of tentacles and eyeballs and other people’s bones.” 

Jon half-smiled and half-grimaced. “I’d rather not think of Elias, hm, _undressed_ as such.”

Martin swatted him, emitting a sharp noise of disgust. Then he groaned lightly and Jon glanced back, concerned. “Martin?”

He waved him off. “Just a headache.” He shook his head. “Well, apparently our absence is neither unnoted nor permitted, we better get sorted and make a brief appearance.”

Jon hummed his assent, begrudgingly exiting their rectangle of a haven, already missing the dip of the mattress. He frowned down at his rumpled skirt as if it was its fault it was out of order. He pulled and pressed it to rights, slipping on his boots and rubbing circles into the back of his head, the buzz becoming a pointed sensation, almost like a stinging. 

“You want some ibuprofen?” Martin offered, always attuned to him, always ready in the wings to ease him into better. Pantheon, he’d been a fool to write Martin off before. 

“No, thank you. I’m just…I’m just disoriented. I don’t sleep like this,” he gestured vaguely to the bed, “when I sleep at all. Groggy.”

Martin dipped his chin, left the room, came back with a glass of water and his suit hanging from his wrist. He pressed the cool glass into Jon’s hand and began putting on the suit industriously. Jon took small sips—he was parched, he registered in surprise—watching raptly as Martin tucked his shirt, shrugged into his jacket. He was just straightening his collar, slipping his tie from the hanger, when Jon set the glass on the table and crossed over to him. He slowly pulled the tie from Martin’s hands.

“Let me.” 

Martin flushed but acquiesced, bending slightly to give him easier access. Jon threaded the tie and knotted it expertly, pulling it secure. He reached up, guiding Martin to a slightly deeper bend, and pressed a kiss into his earlobe that made the other man shiver. He basked in Martin’s clean, natural scent—fine earth and fresh tea and a riot of blossoms—before stepping back. 

Jon made for the loo, boots clicking satisfactorily on the wooden floor. He fixed his hair with quick and easy dexterity. He could likely braid his hair in his sleep. Which would have been helpful this time around. When he exited to the living space, Martin was perched on the arm of the sofa. He was just finishing conjuring—Growing? Manifesting?—a rough circlet of rowan and acorns and flowers with subdued yet vivid colours. Martin glanced over as he tweaked one of the sprigs of pine and Jon’s heart surged. 

“You ready?” 

Jon sighed. “As much as I will be, I imagine.”

Martin nodded. “I understand. We’ll keep it as short as possible.” He paused. “Do you need to eat before we go? I have a few spare blood bags in the fridge, Georgie gave me a few of her backstock for, uh.” He coughed lightly, looking at what must be a staggeringly interesting spot on the wall. “I mean, I was hoping you might stay over, um, without necessity from you being all desiccated and such.” 

Jon smiled. “I’m sure that can be arranged. However, I’d actually like—I’d like you to come to my place, tonight, if that’s agreeable.” It was an allowance he rarely made. Only Georgie and Daisy had been permitted. The blue moon instances in which he had casual encounters, they happened elsewhere and he never spent the night. “And yes, I’d appreciate a snack, thank you.”

“Oh, um, I’d like that a lot. Thanks.” Martin’s brow crinkled, flustered, and Jon’s smile widened. “I’ll just—” He cut himself off. “I mean, if you want—you can ah, have it—directly.” 

Jon’s gaze sharpened at the offer.

Martin shrugged, becoming more self-assured. “Fresh coffee and all.” He teased.

Jon proffered his hand and Martin obliged, taking it in his larger and much warmer hand. Jon looked him up and down. “I should probably feed from your wrist. I’d hate to risk your collar and ruin my good work on your tie.”

Martin arched a brow. “Aren’t you always talking about your precision and poise? And I’m confident you can retie a tie, unless that was dumb luck.” 

Jon growled a little at the perceived challenge. He pressed Martin into the sofa, settling in his lap petulantly, and tugged his tie free, a little more forcefully than strictly necessary. He tipped his head back and his growl ticked up in intensity as Martin chuckled. He bit into him, cutting off the laughter abruptly with satisfaction. The blood poured down his throat thickly and he knew it was sentiment, but his wretched body was convinced it was the best he’d ever had. When he was done, he pointedly cleaned the wound with the utmost grace and care, sure his frustration was apparent in his painstakingly controlled hands as he re-crisped Martin’s collar and redid his tie. When he sat back, he huffed, annoyed by his own instincts and Martin’s instigating. 

“Why must you rile me up?” He groused.

“Why must you be so easily riled?” Martin returned. He ran his hands along his back and Jon sighed into the soothing feeling. Martin gripped the back of his thighs and hefted him into a bridal carry and Jon let out a truly undignified sound. 

“Martin!” 

“Come along, you ridiculous vampire. We’ve got to get to the ball before our coach becomes a pumpkin. Or Elias hunts us down himself.” At Jon’s continued protests, Martin looked down at him with an unexpectedly sober expression. “Let me have this, please. The only other time I’ve gotten to hold you like this, you were a husk of yourself and I thought I might never have the chance again.”

Jon stilled, then, hand pressed against Martin’s chest. Wordlessly, he let himself be held, tucking his face into Martin’s shoulder. He’d been so focused on—well, nothing, actually, back then—barely cognizant at all, he hadn’t really considered how that must have affected Martin beyond the general distress. 

“Thank you.” Martin murmured when he gently deposited Jon at the top of the stairs. 

Jon threaded their fingers together before realising it was futile to try to match their steps together. He doggedly held on, hand drawn back as he led the way. 

When they got to the bottom, they hailed a cab. 

When they arrived at the ball, held in some fancy hotel as it always was, it was in full swing still. An orchestra of Sirens and Astronauts filled the event hall with their music, their control over pressure affecting the instruments, creating ethereal sounds that blended together in strange and beautiful ways, occasionally sounding like vague, indiscernible voices that Jon imagined sounded much like sirens of lore.

Elias noticed them immediately. Jon felt pulled, their gazes locking across the room. Elias gave him a brief, annoyed nod of acknowledgement, then turned back to his conversation with Maxwell Rayner, one of the most prominent donors to the Institute. 

“ _There_ you are!” Jon turned as Daisy stalked towards them. 

“Hey, Daisy.” He said a little sheepishly.

“Oh, yeah, ‘hey,’ Jon.” She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t answer any of my texts! I thought you were abandoning me to this—this glittery hellscape.”

“Well—” Jon lifted his hands, spread wide.

Daisy’s gaze narrowed even as she turned it to Martin. “Hey, Martin. I don’t blame you.”

Martin perked up. “What?”

“Congratulations on finally shagging.” 

Martin choked. 

“ _Daisy_.” Jon chided. 

“How do you—” Martin tugged at his tie and patted his hair anxiously. Jon put a staying hand on his. 

“Daisy’s being rude.” He shot a look at her pointedly. She may be incapable of turning her hellhound abilities off but it was an incredible breach of decorum to mention her discoveries in polite company. 

Daisy grinned a sharp grin, shrugging half-apologetically. “You owe me a dance, Sims.”

Martin turned to him gleefully. “You dance. How have I never seen it at past balls?”

Jon glowered. “Because I tend to avoid the attention.” 

“It’s a delight.” Daisy said sincerely. “But seeing as you’ve never had the pleasure, I’ll cede to you, Martin.” She looked back at Jon, pointing a finger. “Consider your dance card punched.” She turned and strode off in the direction of the middle space reserved for dancing, doing her own thing until she was quickly claimed as a partner by Adelard Dekker. She turned her sharp smile on him and he matched her energy as they fell into step together. 

“You don’t have to, you know.” Martin said in a soft aside, gaze focused on the spinning figures in all their finery, a cascade of colour and movement. “Draw attention to yourself, I mean. I’m happy to just exist together, get some wine, sit down and serve our time, as it were.”

Jon slid his fingers home between Martin’s and guided him to the centre of the room. “You’re worth drawing attention to.” Martin sucked in a breath.

Jon fell into the music easily—that was the purpose of Vast music, lulling you into movement that was almost entirely yours but a hint of other. He pressed a hand into the small of Martin’s back. It turned out Martin was a fairly skilled dancer himself—unsurprising, since he’d witnessed him at past dances, alternating between Tim and Sasha and, on a couple occasions, a date from outside the Institute, a Dryad once, and a mortal another. 

“Where did you learn to dance?” Martin asked.

“Took to swing.” 

“Swing? Really?” Martin said in awe. “You’re an absolute vision, I bet.”

Jon tilted his head to the side, hiding the shy, pleased smile. 

“Oh my, god, _look_ —” Martin exclaimed. 

Jon turned them, getting a view of whatever Martin was ogling.

Sasha was pressed against Michael, their impossibly jointed hands entwined as they spun her out, static popping where they connected. Sasha grabbed Tim’s hand, pulling him closer into their circle. Jon thought the Distortion was going to bow out and give Tim the next dance but then—

_Michael bent in a jagged bow, their chaotic, long blonde hair dripping, and offered their hand to Tim._

Tim’s eyebrows jumped. He looked at Sasha, who just smiled and shrugged in return. Tim turned back to the—well, what could charitably be called an abomination against the concepts of time and space—and took the proffered hand, wincing at the contact. Michael grinned delightedly and a tad manically.

“Sorry. Let me tone myself down a bit.” Jon could hear Michael say. 

Sasha retreated, an amused and pleased tone to her stride, as they took up with each other.

Martin whistled and Jon retrieved his jaw from the floor. 

“Tim Stoker and the Distortion dancing.” Martin made a noise in the back of his throat. “Tim’s one-sided feud ending through the power of rhythm. Who would have thought?”

Jon just shook his head, nonplussed.

Martin took the lead for a moment. “Have you considered that as a strategy? Dancing with your enemies.” 

Jon raised a brow. “You’re making the assumption that I don’t want to keep my enemies just so.”

Martin looked down fondly a moment before his expression became radiant. “Ooo can I dip you?”

“Not on your life.” Jon said dryly, feeling only a twinge of remorse when Martin’s face fell.

“Valid.” The other man said, bouncing back. 

Jon caught sight of Basira passed Martin’s shoulder. She wore a grey dress that escaped being drab by its cut and the sharp touches of sparkling accents that cut through the light like crystal. The hem of her silver hijab drooped as she dipped her head, smiling fondly down at her dance partner. A tiny girl perched on Basira’s shoes as she shuffled them around. Two sets of equally tiny wings poked out of the child’s white lace dress. As the song drew to a finish, the child beckoned Basira to her level and whispered in her ear. Both of them turned to meet Jon’s gaze and he averted it, feeling caught. 

Soon the little girl approached, tugging the hem of Martin’s suit jacket as they paused in their motion. 

“Hullo. I’m Agnes.” She said as she looked up at him.

Martin visibly startled and Jon felt the same expression on his face.

“Uh—hullo, Agnes.” Martin returned, voice tinged with awe.

“’Sira said I’m not allowed to burn your flowers.”

“Yes, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

“Will you dance with me instead? I asked and she said I can dance with the flower boy.” She said primly.

Martin’s expression softened as he looked down at the little terror. He glanced up at Jon, then back. “I’d be delighted.”

Agnes nodded regally, then extended a hand, guiding him away as he accepted. Martin cast an amused look at Jon that he returned. As they fell into step, Agnes perching on Martin’s shoes like a pedestal, Jon found a seat at a table with Gerry and Oliver, nabbing a glass of wine off a passing tray. 

“Hello Archivist.” Oliver greeted.

“Jonny boy.” Gerry said with fondness. 

They fell into easy conversation as Jon’s gaze slid over the dance floor—Daisy now paired with Basira, Melanie and Georgie twirling in elegant black dresses that brushed each other. Jon smiled slightly at the white detailing on Georgie’s corset, strung to suggest a rib cage. And Martin—his gaze always, always, alighted back on Martin—the gentle way he moved with that little time bomb of a Phoenix, laughing boisterously every once in awhile at something she said. Sometimes she beamed, pleased, and others, she leveled him with a quizzical, stern look, as if what she said was not meant to be funny. 

Jon didn’t know how long he sat, watching contentedly, the songs long since blending together and partners changing in and out. He watched Martin and Tim dissolve into giggles as they dipped each other back and forth, Sasha and Michael bumping into other couples and cackling when they jumped away from their strange bodies, Basira and Daisy dancing in a circle, arms linked with Agnes, occasionally pausing to pat out a fire on her dress. He noted Peter in the furthest corner, tendrils of fog curled tight around him as he glowered at the whole affair. He noted the Board in deep discussion, Elias at the centre of it all, an eye of calm amidst the others’ intensity. The Director adjusted his silver cufflinks, smoothed down the black tie that had twisting silver embroidery, tendrils suggesting smoke or tentacles that stood out starkly against his mauve suit. He looked impatient as he responded to his tablemates. Suddenly, he raised a palm and the table fell silent around him. His gaze slid over the room, touching on Jon’s briefly, and his boss’s lips quirked in a satisfied smile that sent spiders down his spine.

Elias rose, clinking a fork against a cut crystal goblet. He didn’t really need to—it was more a human habit. Elias pulled in everyone’s attention by the mere gravity of himself, by the subtle tug of the Ceaseless Watcher. 

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen and otherwise.” His voice was like silk against the silence, filling it with a depth that Jon was never sure was paranormally imbued or just sheer force of personality. “I’m so glad to have you all with us today to celebrate the triumphs of our work at the Institute and express gratitude for the generosity of our Donors.” He gestured at the avatars sitting around him—members of prominent families like the Lukas’ and Rayners, and standalone Powers like the Lord of the Chase. I cannot fully express to you the—the _euphoria_ of this gathering, because it is unlike any other.” Elias grinned then, and it was so heartfelt and far-removed from his usual plastic grins that hid under layers of charm that Jon felt a building sense of apprehension, like something was grievously amiss.

“Finally,” Elias continued, “our aims at the Institute have, after centuries of toil, been realised.”

Confused mumblings rose around the room. 

That looming feeling was approaching a keening that fought with that buzzing in his head, the hum that had slept once he’d arrived, but arose from its slumber with renewed vigor.

“Since my founding of the Institute, it has been hellish step forward after another, building this seat of power, this temple of Knowledge, from the ground up. It took me a century alone to convince all of the Powers that be to join me in my harrowing pilgrimage. And now at long last, all gathered here will join me to witness this holy occasion.” The murmurs picked up in volume. Jon had to focus to not be overwhelmed by the voices rambling through his senses.

Jonah Magnus had founded the Institute. Hence, the name.

Jonah Magnus had—

The Knowledge settled into him suddenly, causing him to gasp at the Eye’s fervent whispering.

_Jonah Magnus had worn more faces than any avatar of the Stranger or Spiral, consciousness burrowing into the minds of vessel after vessel, a parasite that picked apart their brains and took and took until their life burned out and he had to Watch from yet more eyes that did not belong to him—_

Elias— _Jonah_ — closed his eyes briefly, basking in a sacredness Jon could not see, but Felt through the Eye. “You see, this is not merely a ball.” He shook his head, chuckling. “No.”

Jon’s knuckles went pale from how hard he gripped the edge of the table, head full of static.

“It’s a _Coronation_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elias: first of all, I would like to thank not only me, but also myself
> 
> Agnes: dance is an acceptable trade for arson


	33. the world in reverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elias initiates the Watcher's Crown and the world goes sideways.
> 
> CWs this chapter: ahh, just, So Many, this is a carnival of horrors, human (avatar) sacrifice, body horror, eco horror, blood, self harm, compulsion/mind control, faux paralysis, existential dread, rot, death of a child, character death, physical exhaustion, broken bones, various kinds of gore, betrayal, spiders, good ol classic canon-typical worms.
> 
> Sorry if I missed any there is just..a Lot that happens here. I will include a summary in the end notes if you need to skip this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello dear ones! I hope the world is being kind and as always, thank you for joining me on this tea cup ride of terror. I am currently operating off being awake for about 19 hours and my brain is a cherry slushie. Hopefully this is coherent RIP in Peace @me. 
> 
> This chapter really gutted me tbh. I always try to avoid shock value and gratuitous suffering, have things feel earned and have something going on below the surface. There were just so many angles and sharp edges to this chapter, and the nature of the beast, as it were, required a fair bit of agony, bc ah, cacophony of Eldritch Terrors. So please please please be gentle with yourself and take care of yourself however you need to dealing with this heavy material!

“This is not the covenant we agreed to!” One of the Donors cried in outrage—the current matriarch of the Lukas family, judging by the fog that coiled around her body in tendrils, poised as if snakes readying to strike. Her fists trembled in and out of perception.

“We signed in blood for a neutral mass ritual.” Another Donor stood, not one Jon recognised, but he could See beneath their glamour, but considering the unhinged jaw with blood seeping between their teeth and flowing in a runnel along their bare arms like opera gloves, he pegged them for a servant of the Slaughter. 

“And a mass ritual you shall have.” Elias said, completely at ease. 

“You can’t break a blood oath sworn through the Obsidian Law.” The Donor of the Forsaken growled.

“No.” Elias acknowledged with a placid dip of his chin. “But I never signed by my blood.”

“We all saw you!” Hezekiah Wakely of the Buried said.

“Well, you certainly saw me sign in _someone’s_ blood.” 

“I _smelled_ you.” The Lord of the Chase snarled. Jon felt their rage boil through himself. He dug his claws into his bare knee, seeking purchase in his skin for clarity. He glanced at Daisy, who was now seated with Basira and little Agnes. She was practically vibrating with anger, claws extended, teeth sharp, posture bent forward. 

If this wasn’t handled there would be bloodshed.

_There will be bloodshed_. The Eye stirred, its presence heavy on Jon’s shoulders in what he felt was meant to be a soothing weight. His nails dug deeper. He would not yield to the Watcher. Not this day or any other.

“Lick your wounds on your own time, Hunter.” Elias said, voice dripping with condescension. “I wouldn’t do that.” He tilted his head as Simon Fairchild rose.

“You overestimate yourself, Bouchard.”

“Magnus, please, now that we’re opening up to each other.”

“You are not the only creature with power in this hall.” Simon took several steps forward. Immediately the pressure in the room crept closer and closer to asphyxiation. He turned his power solely on Elias— _Jonah_ —who grinned as he choked, his hands loosely clutched at his throat. 

With staggering effort, he wrenched his arms down. Jon could hear the popping of joints, the snapping of bone. Elias drew his broken fingers—a couple of which were at unholy angles—and formed a car’s cradle with invisible thread—no—not invisible—there was something there, he could See it where his own eyesight failed.

Simon dropped to his knees, crying out against the impact of the marble.

“You can’t—that’s _Web_ borne—” He said through gritted teeth. 

“Yes, well, it helps to have friends in low and deep and dank places.” 

Jon yelped, drawing his knees against his chest as spiders surged under the table. They gathered from around the ballroom, a thin army of arachnids that collected themselves a little ways away from where Elias stood in the centre of the hall, coalescing into a column that twisted in and crawled over itself and—

Formed Annabelle Cane.

Elias extended a hand and she just looked at it for a moment. Unbothered, Elias turned back to address his captive audience. 

“Forgive me if I don’t monologue my journey to this point in time. I’ve rather waited a lifetime for this.” His smile widened. “Or three. Annabelle?”

She raised her gloved hands, lace spilling in rivulets from her fingers as they curved like hooks.

No. 

_No._

Not lace.

_Spider silk._

It was woven so thickly her flesh was obscured. Her fingers began to work and Jon felt a pull in his chest, something pulled taut that caused his breath to leave in a gasp. He Looked down at himself and then around the room.

The hall was covered in a latticework of silk, finely spun threads wrapped around necks and joints and hearts. Annabelle’s spiders must have been working the room all evening to spin the vile network of thralls—gifts for the Mother of Puppets. A panic built up into a cacophony as all of the guests realised they were caught as surely as moths in a widow’s net. Annabelle tugged on the threads and the room fell silent, several hands clasped to throats as muffled noises of distress leaked out. 

“Will you get on with it?” Annabelle glowered at Elias. “I don’t have patience for your theatrics.” 

Elias waved her off. “So subtle, the Web. No sense of flair. Very well.” He looked around the room, smug gaze settled on the Donors’ table. “I’ll take those sacrifices you swore to me, now.”

Avatars around the room jerked to their feet, drawing nearer to the centre of the room despite the obvious desperate efforts to still themselves. But the marionettes marched on, the very last one giving out with blood trickling out of their nose and eyes. They formed a perfectly equidistant circle around Elias. 

There were a few unfamiliar faces—avatars Jon only Knew through the Watcher, their names meaning nothing to him. Then there were the ones he knew, the ones he’d happened upon, the ones he’d heard of, and the ones he’d worked alongside at the Institute. John Amherst of the Filth, Callum Brodie of the Dark, Oliver Banks of the End, Trever Herbert of the Hunt. Jon growled. He had no love for Trever, he often instigated infighting—but he was _not for the Eye to take_. Though apparently he very much was, as the Lord of the Chase had promised him away. 

There was Breekon & ( _good_ he thought viciously), Mike Crew, Rosie, the Distortion and—

And Agnes Montague.

She looked so small in the circle, a mere child, no awareness of the adult she’d been. The eerie calm she accepted the situation with, eyes somber with a weight beyond her years, was discomfiting. 

“Ramsey?” Elias beckoned with a crooked finger and the dread avatar of the Extinction emerged from the outskirts of the room, striding forward seemingly of their own will.

“Architect.” They greeted Magnus cheerily. “Energizer Bunny reporting for duty.” They took the point of the circle, a keystone in the profane arc. 

“Now that just leaves…” Elias’ gaze found Jon’s across the room. A shiver ran through him, the weight of the Eye so strong in his gaze that Jon felt scraped raw to the soul. “My Archivist.” Jon shook, nerves alive with an alien energy.

“ _No_.” 

Jon whipped his head around, finding Martin several tables down, face red with the exertion of fighting against the Web’s binds. Mud spilled out of his orifices with the effort, parts of his face dripping in slow rivulets of clay. His gaze was so fierce it pinned Jon in place. 

Elias sighed. “Annabelle?”

Annabelle looked at Martin, annoyed, and redoubled her efforts, pulling a more intricate knot. Jon cried out as Martin’s mouth was visibly sewn shut with shining thread. “If it weren’t for the special occasion, I’d have more fun drawing this out and breaking that will you insist on having.”

“Jonathan.” Elias practically sang. 

Jon felt his body working against him, his sharp nails dislodging themselves to free his knees. He gritted his teeth. He felt the twin trickles of blood coursing down the length of his cheeks from his eyes. 

“Jonathan, _really_.” Elias sighed as if he were being a petulant child. “You are making this much harder on yourself than necessary. Though I shouldn’t be surprised you’re able to resist the Web at great pains—the Eye is rather antithetical isn’t it?” His voice was tinged with _pride_ of all things and Jon’s flesh crawled. “Watcher’s Call it is.” He raised his hands and Jon didn’t even have purchase to hold onto in resistance, he drew himself up abruptly, felt himself walk forward as if in a dream, disconnected from his body, a moth compelled toward the light that was Elias. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Elias placed a hand on his shoulder and he flinched away. 

“You know you were the most challenging piece of this puzzle, Archivist. It took me nigh two centuries to figure out the reason all our rituals were failing was because the Pantheon cannot exist without each of its separate pieces. There’s too much overlap, too many…tangled nerves.” Elias explained, eyes taking on a feverish gleam. “It took me another century to figure out a way to hold these rituals in tandem, to create a constellation of our feeble attempts at pulling the Pantheon through the eye of a needle. And then I thought—I thought, what if there was a common denominator, a vessel steeped in every Entity, an _Archive_ of the dread powers.” Elias shook his head, smiling to himself. “It took so long to find the right vessel, you know. Burned through quite a few avatars offered up for the task. You should be flattered, really, that your Lord’s confidence in you proved worthy.” 

Jon cast a disbelieving look at Alister, who looked back with a stony expression, only a brief tick in their brow indicating they had any feelings on the matter. Jon had been led to the slaughter from the start. Emotions too strong and cycling too quickly poured through him. He would have gladly offered himself in service of the Hunt, in any venture to bring its manifestation to fruition. Why hadn’t—why hadn’t he been given the opportunity to illustrate his devotion? Why—?

_Why._

“I learned from your predecessors, of course. You needed to be made like a fine vintage, absorbing the Powers in increments that wouldn’t overwhelm your weak flesh. I insisted you work at the Institute as that was the safest way for you to steep, vicariously soaking in the horrors instead of being put at physical risk. You were quite the investment, after all.” Elias flicked his gaze toward the Donors. “Thank you for backing this venture, by the way. If it makes you feel any better, it really is necessary for all the Entities to be summoned at once. I just didn’t disclose that the ritual can be tilted in a single patron’s favour.” He turned back to Jon. “It’s time, Archivist.”

The panic was a keening in his skull, closing up his throat. “No. Not for you.” He managed to bite out. “Not for _your_ god.”

Elias was unbothered. “I’m afraid you don’t have much choice in the matter. Did you really think you could reside in my Domain for so long, welcoming in the Eye, feeding it and being fed in return—did you really think that your mere _determination_ would shield you from its influence?” Elias’s smile was soft, pitying. “Oh, Jonathan. Ironic, isn’t it? That you never could see what was in front of you without a little help.” Elias tsked. “Ceaseless Watcher. I humbly invoke you— _turn your gaze_.”

The weight of the Eye before had been a mere caress. This was the true force of the Watcher’s gaze, a crushing, flaying sight that ripped him bare down to each cell, each thought and memory in his head—

Jon _screamed._

He couldn’t think through the pain, the wordless agony of being so thoroughly Known. 

“Just give into it, Jonathan.” Elias implored, cutting through the voiceless abyss. “End your suffering. Accept your destiny and be free of your lowly consciousness. Allow yourself to _transcend_.”

Jon shook his head even as he buckled to the pain, falling hard on his knees.

Elias rolled his eyes. “Always so _difficult_.” He huffed a belaboured sigh. “I _suppose_ I can’t fault you for it—I’m sure your strength of will was the main factor in you not collapsing under the mark of every Entity occupying your body.” 

_Witness witness witness witness witness witness witness witness witness witness witness witness witness witness witness_. The Watcher managed the single word, drilling it into the depths of Jon’s skull. He didn’t think he could hold out much longer.

“ ** _Jonathan Sims, Child of the Hunt, Conduit of the Pantheon, Mouthpiece of the Gods_**.” Elias intoned, raising his hands high. There were eyes embedded in his palms, his glamour not tearing but being burst through like a cocoon. “ ** _Bear witness_**.”

A riot of agony erupted in the circle. The dryad sacrifice was overcome with roots, weaving in and out of her orifices, strangling her until sap poured from her mouth and she collapsed, mushrooms growing from the soil of her flesh. Amherst’s skin became riddled with holes, worms honeycombing every inch they could find purchase. Beetles poured from his mouth, spilling down his front, soon followed by his tongue, which fell to the floor with a soft, muffled slap. Mold spread over all the leftover real estate the worms weren’t occupying. It was hard to tell what did him in. Callum Brodie’s eyes were consumed with white film before he dissolved into a pillar of dust on a breeze. An easy death, considering.

Agnes erupted in an inferno, wings charred down to the bone, wax face melting until she was just ash and paraffin, a spent wick. Oliver’s skin grew taut around his face, aging rapidly, growing withered and stooped until he was a mere pile of bones. The avatar of the Flesh’s skin peeled back from their body, unreeling in meaty strips that revealed a mess of muscle and marrow and tissue all in screaming colours. Trever Herbert howled as he was ripped apart by an invisible force in ragged bits, blood spattering the ground and entrails strewn about in a raw arc. The Lonely avatar’s fog fled, leaving them bare for all to see. She cowered even as she unraveled inch by inch, not becoming invisible but dissipating from existence. The Slaughter avatar was ribboned apart by gashes and slashes and wounds inflicted by unidentified weapons. He finally, mercifully, fell apart, dismembered after having his throat slit in a sheet of crimson. 

Michael laughed in static as they twisted and fractured and swirled in riotous colours and patterns. Their voice echoed after they blinked out of existence, leaving a tall, dark-skinned feminine form in their place. They felt their face with impossibly jointed hands, ran them along their curvier body, then through their hair that cycled through colours at a dizzying rate. They laughed like a light bulb shattering, an octave higher than Michael’s. “I guess it’s Helen, now is it?” They sat cross-legged in their spot, chin balanced on those long fingers. 

Breekon &’s face smoothed out, all discernible features bleeding into each other until it was a blank space. It hardened into marble that cracked in veins, ravaged until he was only chunks and rubble. Mike Crew was asphyxiated, curled in on himself as he fought the vertigo he once exulted in. The avatar of the Mother of Puppets erupted in spiders. Just. Just erupted in spiders. Silk had unraveled from his mouth and Jon had closed his eyes at that point because _spiders_ but he Knew his organs had been full of bursting egg sacs and _my god_. He did his best not to look at the skittering refuse. He found it surprisingly easy to not be morbidly captivated—after a moment he realised the Eye was obscuring it from him, responding to his distress.

Ramsey just smiled beatifically. They were quite literally radiant, their Rorschach face glowing and pulsing with sickly neon veins. They were painful to look at. Their melted skin and scarring were curiously unaffected. They caught him staring and their lips split into a sore-ridden grin.

“I can’t die.” Ramsey said. “Not such as this. I’m the One Who Will Perish Last, the Sentry of the Final Silence. You want to know a secret, Archivist?” They glanced at Elias mischievously then turned back to Jon. “They never really killed that last Extinction avatar at all. It was me. I’m something entirely new.” 

Jon had hit his limit for stimuli. He just looked blankly at the avatar, who was whistling as they coursed with energy. He Knew, absently, that as much as he was a lynchpin, so was Ramsey, channeling the ritual like a transformer, ensuring nothing short-circuited, feeding off the excess like sipping at the edge of a glass so the drink didn’t spill over.

That left the Eye—

_The Crown of the Apocalypse, the Pillar of the Wasteland, the Ruler Who Sees to the Ends of the Earth, the One Who Gazes Upon Everything and Everything is Its._

Jon scowled at Elias. “Keep your _exultations_ to yourself.” He spat out a glob of blood. 

Elias merely smiled.

“Alright, Archivist.” Elis closed the short distance between them, barely an arm’s length away. Jon wanted to step back, to put space between them, but he was anchored in place. “It’s time for our grand finale.” He turned to rest his gaze on Rosie with a genuine softness that turned Jon’s stomach. He didn’t want to think of Elias caring about anything or anyone. Before now, he was sure the man was incapable of such sentiment, bearing a cold and fathomless heart. 

Elias bent down and clasped his hand briefly with Rosie’s, pressed a kiss into her forehead. When she opened her eyes, she looked determined. “Promise me you’ll let me borrow your eyes.” She whispered. “I want to see it. All of it.”

Elias nodded. “I promise.”

She dipped her chin gracefully. And then she gouged her eyes out with her bare hands, nails scraping and viscera spilling and Jon could feel the Watcher lamenting even as it consumed her sacrifice amidst her wailing. 

Elias laid a hand on the top of her head as he turned to Jon. “ ** _Rend this plane_**.”

Jon clenched his jaw but it was torn open, his voice unable to be contained, unable to resist the compulsion that reached down his throat and burned through his lungs. The words were stripped from him in a howl,

“ _Forever Deep Below Creation, that which buries and chokes and burrows. Crawling Rot, that which breeds and creeps and consumes. The Forever Blind, that which obscures and hides and blots. The Lightless Flame, that which scorches and scours and lays barren. The Coming End That Waits for All and Cannot Be Ignored, that which silences and reaps and looms. Viscera, that rends and twists and butchers. The Hunt, that which stalks and tears and sups. The Forsaken, that which forgets and strands and abandons. The Slaughter, that which slashes and frenzies and savages. It Is Not What It Is, that which deceives and tricks and unravels. I Do Not Know You, that which confuses and unsteadies and warps. The Falling Titan, that which suspends and suffocates and overwhelms. The Web, that which binds and puppets and manipulates. The Future Without Us, that exterminates and ceases and carries on. Ceaseless Watcher—inheritor of the earth, heir to the throne of mankind—that which observes and knows and_ **_ascends. Bleed into this world in all your terrible perfection. I light the path_**.”

Jon collapsed, joining the broken bodies on the floor. There was a thunderous rumbling, something that extended beyond mere sound. He felt it in his core, in—he couldn’t find a word for it, something beyond his paltry nervous system and his useless flesh. 

He could _See_ it all. The silk snapped and avatars scrambling. Gerry kneeling by Oliver’s bones, pulling on some invisible thread until—God—he drew the man’s spirit from his bones, turning him into a spectre like himself. Gerry picked Oliver’s ring up from his empty bones and slid it gently on his finger. Together they looked on grimly as whatever was happening manifested. Basira pressed her palms into Agnes’ ashes, holding them to her cheeks briefly as tears slipped down. She then scooped up a small portion of the ashes and consumed them. Sasha, Tim, Daisy, Georgie, Melanie—Sight flashed through him as his mind buzzed in panic— _they were here, they were whole_ —

The information was pouring in too quickly, quicker and wider and more than ever before, thoughts and memories and Knowing drowning him. He floundered, trying to narrow his focus, hold onto a single thing, a single anchor—

_Martin._

Jon turned and began to haul his broken body to his feet, dizzy and barely keeping it together.

“Jon.” Martin was suddenly there on his knees—did time pass? Was time still real in any way they knew it?

“Martin.” He said, hoarse, leaning into the big, warm hands that were roving over him, checking him for grievous injuries, and then, satisfied, pressing Jon against his broad chest. Jon let his forehead fall against him, spent far beyond any of his capacities.

“What’s happening, Jon?” Martin’s voice was low, scared, and there was absolutely nothing Jon could do to reassure him.

“I think—I think the world is unmaking itself.” Jon whispered through his damaged throat. 

They looked on as Elias stood at the eye of the corpses, head pitched upward in euphoria, eyes blossoming all over him, changing him into something outside of even Jon’s perception. Tendrils spilled from his front like a cravat made of blue smoke, from his torso in limbs that were constantly changing shape and opacity. Jon caught a glimpse of organs through patches of transparent flesh. 

“Oh, Martin.” Jon breathed with sudden Knowledge. He could see it in flashes and bits, like stills from a movie if it was a movie about wandering a landscape from hell.

“Jon? Jon what are you looking at, you’re scaring me—your eyes are all wrong.”

Jon turned back to Martin, forcing himself to focus on him and only him, his lover at the end of the world. “I don’t think we can go together, where we’re going.”

“No.” Martin shook his head in sharp denial. “ _No_.” The word was a sob on his lips.

Jon pressed their foreheads together. “No matter what happens, I will look for you. I won’t stop until I find you.”

“Jon—I—I don’t want to go. Not without you.” Martin’s hands were too tight around his, but Jon leaned into the touch, lacing their fingers together. 

“I don’t want to either, darling. But we don’t get a choice.” He wanted to be strong for Martin so badly. To say it would be alright and they’d find each other and it would be _good_. 

But he promised never to lie.

Martin leaned back. He began undoing the buttons of his dress shirt.

“Martin I don’t think that’s going to be helpful—?”

The other man ignored him, finally ripping asunder the last of the buttons, fueled by a frantic energy. He dipped into his chest with an efficiency that made Jon wince. He unspooled something—“Take this, Jon.” He rolled it between his fingers, molding it into a—circle?

“What is—?”

“It’s part of my rib.” Martin explained, taking Jon’s burnt hand in his own and delicately sliding the ring on. Jon’s hand trembled under the imaginary weight of the circle of bone and birch. “Find me.” 

“I—Martin—”

“I won’t stop looking, either.” Martin cupped Jon’s cheek in his hand, running his thumb across his cheekbone. “Not until I have you back.”

“Martin.” This time Jon’s voice broke. He turned his face to press a kiss into Martin’s palm.

“I know. I know.”

“Martin, I lo—”

And the world ceased to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Watcher's Crown is successful, the world is unmade, the future is unclear. Everyone is potentially split up.
> 
> In conclusion, Everything Happens So Much.
> 
> Elias: I will not monologue  
> Elias: *monologues Anyway*


	34. hell is empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin and Jon awaken in the After.
> 
> CWs this chapter: cruelty, suffocation, being trapped, implied drowning, being buried alive, body horror, eco horror, gore, bloodlust, stalking, loss of will, compulsion, supernatural instincts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello fair travelers! Thank you as always, for joining me at the intersection of Pain Town and Hope City, where this story lives! 
> 
> This chapter is just me finally accepting that pacing is for people who are more put together than I and my "like two (2) chapters left!" is actually going to be how many chapters this story demands me to write lmao. My money is still on sooner than later but if 2020 is allowed to be a complete mess then So! Am! I! 
> 
> On the real this was a delight and a torment to write because Terrible Paradise and--well--you'll see.

Roots wrapped around Martin in an anchoring embrace, thick sinew twisting and searching ever deeper into the soil. Things skittered over and around them, things he knew had no names, for they had never seen the light before and the mortals could not claim them with their wide eyes and greedy labels. Silt lined his throat, silk-smooth and suffocating. His limbs ached with the lack of use and he used his energy now to burrow _deeper_. He sighed into the earth, feeling better than he had—well, ever, likely. 

He wanted to stay like that, to rest in this living grave, this cradle of darkness and safety and sleep. But there was something nibbling at the back of his brain, a burr that would not let him relinquish himself entirely. There was a twinge in his chest and he pressed into it, grimacing. There was something missing from him, something _important_ —

_Harvest._

The order was almost formless, more a collection of dry leaves and snapping twigs than syllables. But every inch of him understood the call and he bent to it like a reed under wind. He slowly untangled himself from the roots that were not him, cooing and sweet-talking until they gave him room to move freely. They brushed against him as he began to drag himself back into a cohesive form, whining like lap dogs. As his fingertips took shape, clay condensing around bone, he gave them a cursory pat. 

“Quit that, then. Be good. I’ll be back.” He shifted through the mass of roots and rock and soil and all else that served as vessels here in the heart of the Buried. He freed himself into a tunnel, a pitch-black space of hard-packed earth. He wandered around, braced against the walls, heavy on his feet now that he’d been so used to being the debris of a person. He walked for what could have been minutes or hours or days—time was manmade and there was nothing of mankind in these hallowed, hollowed halls. 

Eventually he came to a darkness that was not as dark as the rest, a pillar of shadow that winded up to the surface. He knew the many thousands of steps ahead of him, could feel each through the fragment of It Is Too Close I Cannot Breathe. He sucked in a lungful of dead air and began his steep, winding climb. This was not Atlas’s Casket—he knew that much. That was a pocket dimension, a cute little terrarium of horror, compared to where he was now.

The staircase branched off like so many veins along his path. He could feel the caverns and stalactites and the places where water pressed tightly against the rocky ceilings. He could feel the nameless ones skittering and slithering and crawling through the muck. He could hear the muffled prayers and taste the screams. He paused on the staircase. This vein led to a chamber that only one such as he could breach. Inside, there was a pocket of stone, a small space where one could _almost, almost_ stretch to their full height. It did not matter what height one was, of course. You could only ever _almost_ reach it. There was a group of mortals there, he knew, who crouched and clawed and scrambled through the tunnels, looking for a way out, a way _up_ , god, anywhere that was not _here_. They had been at this for quite some time, doubling back, trying a new path, doubling back, trying again, doubling back.

They hadn’t realised yet that each and every one of the tunnels was a dead end.

His god urged him onward—this was not his crop to harvest. He continued to climb faithfully, slowly regaining confidence in this cohesive form. By the time he finally made it to the top, he pushed through the curtain of stone and roots without hesitation. He flinched and bared his teeth against the light. He held his head in his hands, face turned back against the stone. He wanted to go back down the stairs, to slip back into that blissful, tangled sleep. He whimpered.

_Harvest._

He nodded into the rough roots, his face scraped off with each movement. He took a rattling breath and continued on his holy pilgrimage. Or was it a pilgrimage in reverse? After many painful minutes, his eyes began to adjust to the Topside. He looked around himself in awe. He wasn’t quite _surprised_ by what he saw—he was of it and it was of him, they were all enmeshed together. It would be like being surprised by the back of one’s own hand. But to see the Buried realised in all of its glory—its crushing growth and fathomless depths and the things that lived half in one world and half in the other—things like _him_ —

“Martin!”

He jolted, spinning round. A Kelpie approached—a tall woman spun of dark wood and twined weeds. Her mouth broke open in a sharp grin, teeth carved from geodes glinting within.

“Natalia—” 

She tilted her head, the cascade of her frond-like hair dipping with the movement. “Is this your first time Topside? Is your Prayer finally done?”

“Ah—” His brow crinkled. Is that what he had been doing? “I, I think so.”

“Oh, good.” She smiled anew. “That means I get to be the welcome wagon, then, eh? Though I’m sure you could _feel_ your way around.”

He could, he realised. Now that he had calibrated himself a bit, he felt the whole expanse of the domain, the sprawl of pits and caves and graves and flowers and trees and _gardens_ —He sucked in a deep breath, mind going dizzy. The Kelpie put a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him until he righted himself. She let go with a little pat.

“It must be a bit overwhelming for you.” She said sympathetically. “The rest of us don’t have the weight of the whole place on us at once. Just little bits and pieces. I’ve my own glade, y’know. But you—you’ve got to live with all of us crawling through your head.” 

“Me?” 

Natalia looked at him strangely. “You mean you don’t—you don’t _know_? This is your domain, Martin.”

“I have a—” He shook his head, physically refuting the idea.

“And I don’t mean like my piddly little glade—which I love by the way. You’re our—” She pressed a hand with fingers like roots to her mouth, not doing well at stifling a snort at all. “You’re our _Landlord_. Get it? Because you’re the Lord of the Land?”

Martin pressed a fist into his temple, paling. “I can’t—I can’t be! I don’t even have a _degree_.”

She let out a deep rumble of a laugh. “I suspect the Buried does not care about bits of paper.”

“I—”

_**Harvest.**_

He shivered, palm pressed to his forehead.

Natalia hummed. “Even you must pay your taxes.” Her head canted as if she heard a whistle in the distance. She turned back to him, distractedly, her pupils pinpricks. “Someone’s in my glade.” She sang before she turned and took off. With each step her form sank further and further into that of a steed sluicing mud with each wet stomp of their hooves.

_Lord of the Land. Christ._

He felt, somewhere deep in the back of his skull, that the idea would be a source of derision for him from—from—well, he didn’t know _who_. Certainly people existed outside of him and Natalia and whoever and whatever else resided in the heart of the Buried? There used to be—tonnes of people, mortals crawling the streets like ants—

But all he knew now was Hunger.

He ventured on through the copse of trees. The landscape didn’t make sense if he processed it with the mortal part of his brain. The land was pitted with oubliettes and quicksand and reams of choking barbs and climbing vines, all layered atop each other like an unholy National Geographic special. The pounding in his head only increased the further he went, he needed to do something before his head burst, stars going off behind his eyes. 

Eventually he came to a vast field, dotted through with wildflowers and swaying wheat. His breath left him in a rush. Set alight by golden rays, it was easily one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. He took small, laboured steps, wanting to soak it all up—you could never look at a thing for the first time ever again. His toe brushed against something poking up through the wild grass. He bent down, pushing aside the tall stalks. 

It was a finger. 

“Oh, hello.” Martin said. “What are you doing down there?” He got on his hands and knees, gently unearthing the finger, which, unsurprisingly, was connected to a hand. He laboured at freeing the being from the soil, who he now knew was Finnigan Clarke. Sweat was dripping down his brow by the time Martin got him freed. The man sat, shivering, shocked, hunched in on himself. Martin continued to shape the earth around him.

“I don’t—” He began hoarsely, dry dirt spilling from his mouth. “What’s happening? Who are you?” He looked up at Martin with desperate eyes, the whites now a sleepless pink.

Martin smiled down at him softly. He understood now. 

“Don’t worry, Finnigan. You’re exactly where you should be.”

“I—what do you—”

Martin dug around in his pocket. “There we are!” He retrieved the velvet satchel of seeds. He shook some out into his palm. “You see, Finnigan. Some things are meant to be left wild.” He gestured at himself and then at the further reaches of the field, the natural tangle of blossoms. “But other things, they’re meant to be _kept_.” He began pressing the seeds into the man’s flesh. He shushed as Finnigan screamed and tried to twist away. Each seed sprouted veins of fine roots that webbed under his skin. Once he was through, he diligently patted in the earth around the man, whistling as he went. He took extra care when it came to pressing the dirt around the man’s face. 

When he was done, he glanced around, surveying the space. He had a lot of work to do.

“Welcome to the Garden.” He said as he patted the ground where Finnigan Clarke screamed within, mouth full of soil and spawning vines. He stood up, futilely brushing dirt off of his knees.

It was time to tend Miriam Abernathy.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The woods were in such darkness, the moon stingy with her rays. He wondered if to mortal eyes if it was as enchanting as it was terrifying.

It was an idle thought—he could see as if the sun was sitting on his shoulders, lighting the way. He could feel the heartbeat of the forest underneath his talons, in every beat of his wings. He was not _of_ the forest, but he was _attuned_ to it, so he knew when things that were out of step with the bent trees and brambles were present. 

He knew when _prey_ was afoot.

There was a time—before—he thought. That’s right. There was a _Before_. And in the Before, he remembered having to creep around, to dodge lights and hold the night like a cloak against his sweating skin. Back then he had to dip and curve with the shadows, _hiding_ like the prey in his forest. His lips curled back at the thought. He remembered plastic pressed tight against his lips, lifeless sludge worming its way down his throat, only nips and teases in alleys because he couldn’t help seeing a bit of himself reflected in the eyes of those inferior creatures. He remembered restraint, delicacy—

_He remembered the press of a wrist against his lips and the pair of eyes looking down on him, the only thing he could focus on while his mind was on fire. He remembered the stain of blood on his teeth, how he’d spat and spat and spat and it did not bring the man back, the man made of twigs and bone. He remembered being held flush against someone’s chest, separate heartbeats compromising on a rhythm, he remembered blood trailing thinly over his lips, the world bleeding along with him—_

He shook his head, snarling, raking his claws through his tangled mane. This was Now and nothing was louder than the Blood as it beat against his skull and surged in his veins. He glided from the branch, his two sets of lavender wings splayed in the moonlight. He landed in a low crouch. His head jerked as he caught the scent of something running fast, something that was not Hunting, something whose weakness begged to be Hunted.

He took off. 

In the Now, Jon was able to push himself, to stretch his muscles until they snapped as he went _faster_ , to stretch his mind as he devised new games for his prey at his leisure. His current favourite was False Hope, though he also enjoyed Look What Used to be Inside You and is Now Mine. Forest debris cut into his soles as he ran. He leaned into the pinpricks, exulted in each new sensation of the Chase, the light coming through the canopy in slashes, the smell of sweat and pine and damp and _fear_. Tonight his prey smelled like sunflowers and cigarettes, like blood money and last rites. Jeremy Brindle had been the chairman of a foundation for children—something to do with education of the less fortunate? Hospitals? Jon didn’t care. What he cared about was that Jeremy had _debts_ that needed to be paid, and he had dipped into the treasury—just a little, he said to himself, just this once, just to get the books in order—

But it had become a game, hadn’t it? 

It was so easy the first time—no one suspected a thing. So he’d slipped his fingers into the piggy bank again and again—paltry amounts, really, nothing that would be missed, and he was still doing so much _good_ —he found himself quite able to still smile into the cameras as they featured him and the good works of the foundation, as he hefted children onto his shoulders for photo ops and handed them something shiny and new. He craved and dreaded the day when it would all catch up to him—that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? The adrenaline strung out over the years. Then they got a new accountant and the numbers started looking funny no matter what he did. He had thought himself clever, but when it boiled down to it, he had only ever been banking on someone else’s incompetence. 

And now Jon got to play a game, again and again.

As he caught Jeremy Brindle for the thirty-seventh time, Jon tore his throat out quickly—Jeremy’s prayers and apologies and _excuses_ were never a fun part of the game. He drank the mortal’s life down, offering it up to the Hunt who seethed and snapped in the back of his head. Then he consumed him bit by bit, little by little, like coins spilling from a coffer, emptying into his palm. When he was through, Jon didn’t bother wiping his claws off in the dirt, they would be bloodied again soon enough. The moonlight hit his ring finger and he paused in his ministrations. He canted his head, lifting it up to the light so it was fully illuminated. There was a small ring perched there. He remembered it. Yes, he _remembered_ it because he’d _known_ it was there and he’d _forgotten_. Again. 

He licked it clean, falling into a ritual that came and went between every hunt. It was a circle of birch and bone that stood stark against the surrounding viscera and his dark claws. He did not know where it had come from. It simply was. It smelled familiar, but it smelled like nothing here, and that was unnerving, so he tried not to think about it. It was perfectly fitted to him, almost as if it wasn’t made for him, but like it had always been and always would be. 

His head snapped up as a creature that was not _prey_ entered the clearing. His lips peeled back, displaying his many rows of teeth as his jaw unhinged.

The hound shook itself out with a huff, its many eyes glowing and its many mouths dripping saliva and gore.

“ _Daisy_.” He exhaled.

A howling sounded in the distance. He glanced up at the sky, glaring at the infinite Eyes that looked back. They kept trying to whisper him things. He glanced back at her, muzzle wet and body tense.

Together, they tore off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK OK OK so! I already planned for Martin to have his own domain before (SPOILERS for TMA S5) he got one in canon! And the nature of his domain in canon aligned Perfectly for the emotional themes I've been setting up for him this whole fic!! Vindication!
> 
> If it hasn't been apparent, Martin is canonically the most powerful Avatar of the Buried in this AU. He is a subtle but strong boyo. ((Jon, however, is not the most powerful Avatar of the Hunt. He is a loud, but relatively mundane lad. He's just special because Archivist.))
> 
> Me, sobbing while I type: it's u ur the devils, lads


	35. the gaps between bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin enjoys a hobby and Jon enjoys nothing at all.
> 
> CWs this chapter: body horror, eco horror, cruelty, blood, gore, bloodlust, nonconsensual supernatural elements, and a cameo by our fan favourite canon-typical worms!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello pals! It is 2:30 in the morning! My brain is a single grape withering in the sun! But I offer you this chapter. It's not much, but it's honest work. I hope you're enjoying the apocalypse I'm weaving, tbh I am surprising myself with how the world is structured and how the avatars interact now.

“Your Bone Rose is looking absolutely heavenly.” Martin said, taking a sip of tea.

Jared preened. “Thank you, though I must say I just set things in motion and old Patricia took it from there. Was already full’a insecurities and imperfections, took root right quick.”

“Don’t be too humble.” Martin chided. He fished a sour petal from his teacup. Abernathy was turning out to be quite a bitter plant. “You dredged up the flaws in her subconsciousness that truly make her… _ethereal_.”

“Well, thanks, mate.” Jared shifted in his seat. He wasn’t much for staying still, Martin had noticed over the weeks. “And thanks again for the corpse honey and the bloodberry preserves. You really have a knack for that.”

It was Martin’s turn to beam. He’d been cultivating a hive of corpse bees for weeks and only just pulled out the first frames of their viscous black honey. He’d needed another project as he waited for his flowerbeds to reach full bloom. He’d had to do another round of deadheading that morning, frowning down at the Fairweather sisters, whose petty squabbles kept withering each other’s blossoms. He’d sighed as he chided them, getting to his knees in the grave soil. He really didn’t understand why some people resisted growth. 

Martin and Hopworth had met serendipitously. Martin didn’t pay much mind to anything over on the other side of the fence that crested the wild field. He was rather put out by it, in fact—it tarnished the whole aesthetic of letting nature reclaim the land. But one day he had heard Jared cursing over some Lily of the Damned that kept burrowing deeper and deeper into the soil. Martin had gone over to ream him out—swears were _not_ good for the growth of his garden—but when he witnessed the unruly plant in question, he’d become quite smitten with Jared’s work. Now they talked shop every few days, either in Jared’s gazebo in his Mortal Garden, or beside the trellis in Martin’s—well, he wasn’t quite set on a name. He’d come up with a handful of options, hated them, and then set up a suggestion box for his citizens.

Thus far they’d come up with: the Potted Rot, which didn’t make sense seeing as none of the plants were potted. The Living Graves, which was a rip-off of Atlas’s Casket. The Terrace of Terror, as well as the Terrarium of Terror, which—no. Elysium of the Spurned—too dramatic. And _pretentious_. The Garden of Ghosts—which Martin actually was quite fond of, but there weren’t any ghosts in the garden. 

It was a work in progress. Martin was considering planting fruit trees and embedding them with teeth so he could call it the Grinning Orchard. 

Damn Jared for calling dibs on the Mortal Garden.

Martin glanced up at the sky, frowning at the countless eyes that made up its fabric. “Y’know, I’m still worried about how seasons are going to work here.” They’d originally been concerned that the Eyes would ruin their gardens by some design, but there was no noticeable effect. 

“Well, we’re able to provide dozens of different types of lighting and soil for our plants at the same time so I’m not much bothered.” Jared shrugged, lifting one mosaic shoulder. He was a slapdash puzzle of meat and bone, all incongruous sizes and warped features. He had confided in Martin once that he occasionally took parts from his garden. _Pruning_ , he’d said.

Martin hummed. “You’re probably right.”

“Probably.” Hopworth agreed with a crooked smile full of mismatched teeth. 

“Alright.” Martin got up, slapping his thighs. “Back to the grind. I agreed to mediate between some Venuses who both claim the other is stealing their prey of cheating spouses and incels. And then a Burrower is petitioning for the land beneath a Dryad’s capsule.” Capsule domains were a pain to govern, they so often had grey areas and overlap. 

“Politics.” Jared grunted. 

“Politics.” Martin agreed, rolling his eyes.

“Well that’s one thing I don’t envy you—I’m perfectly happy as a peasant.”

“Hmph. See ya Hoppy.” 

“I’m gonna get to your marrow for that one day, y’know.” He said without much heat.

“You keep saying so.” 

By the time Martin was done hearing his people’s concerns and plugging leaks where he could, he was exhausted. He dragged himself to the top story of the tree house manor he’d conceived, flopping onto his bed. He really wanted to be down, deeper than the cellar, following the roots of the manor to the heart of the Buried, where he could find true rest. But he had other things to attend to. Like once again worrying at the empty space in his chest. He pulled aside the left part of his torso, fingers knuckle deep in the clay of his flesh. He ran his hand down the tines of his ribs, catching at that spot—the spot where part of his rib was broken off. He could patch it up, of course, manifest another rib of birch and bone. But it felt…important, this space. He felt innately that something bad would happen if he filled it. Which was silly, but here he was, the primary avatar of the Buried, living in a fancy treehouse in the After of the mortal world, settling squabbles over who gets to eat who with carnivorous plants. So. Sillier things had come to pass. 

“Hnngh. Stop that, Poe.” He said as he batted away at the paw dipping into his torso. The cat let out a mewl that sounded like the splintering of bone and a glass pushed off the counter. 

Well, to call it a cat was quite generous of him. Martin had found the odd creature chasing butterflies in his garden several days after settling into the Buried. Cat-shaped would be more appropriate. Cat-adjacent. Like someone had seen a cat, then tried to draw it from memory in charcoal, then accidentally ran their hand over it, smudging the picture beyond recognition. Then tack on a truly unholy amount of eyes, and that made up Poe. If the eyes weren’t a dead giveaway, the way strange things happened when the creature brushed up against Martin was the final nail proving it was the spawn of the Watcher. He wouldn’t quite call them _visions_ —they certainly didn’t seem _prophetic_ —but Martin saw things he could not be seeing and knew things he could not know on his own. The worst was when they felt like—they felt like _memories_ , as if Poe was scratching at the vault of his mind. They were so vivid, he could _feel_ them, the keyboard giving under the pressure of his quick typing, the sickening feel of a syrupy peach sliding down his throat like a slug, the weight of impossible hands draped around his shoulders, the featherlight pressure of lips, words whispered in his ear as they spun around the room—they? Him and who?—as they spun—

The room was spinning. 

“Poe you’re doing it again!” Martin’s chest ached in its emptiness, a phantom pain where something was missing missing missing.

The cat pressed its face into the crook of his neck, tapping at him gently with its paw until Martin molded his chest back together. Poe immediately took up residence on the newly smoothed skin, settling down in contentment, a terrible purr emanating from its chest.

“You really are a menace, you know.” Martin said, grudgingly fond. “I should kick you out. Shouldn’t be picking up the Watcher’s strays. You could be a spy for all I know.” The Watcher certainly had cause to watch—ha—its back. None of the other Fears’ avatars were happy that the Eye had usurped the dawn of their gods’ Imminent Perfection, spawning an imbalance from the start. Between that and the slow-brewing threat of the Final End brought about by the Extinction—well, there were _tensions_. If one power was to be in ascendance over the others, everyone was ready to fight tooth and claw and sword and scythe for it to be theirs. 

Politics. Martin sighed. 

He sank back into the blanket of flowers that covered his bed, a duvet of wild roses and sweet lavender and all the other treasures of the earth. He closed his eyes. It wasn’t long before he slipped into dreams of infinite mugs of tea on an infinite counter and burnt flesh chewed clean by silver worms.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon dragged the straight razor across his throat, clearing the shaving cream in one clean swipe. “Tch.” He hissed as a bright stinging revealed a nick. He dabbed at the small beaded drops of blood with a cloth, tossing it on the counter beside the basin when he was done. He had to be careful with his scars, navigating his skin like a minefield. The cut had already healed, of course—that wasn’t the point. It was about precision, restraint, _control_ —

“Are you done in there, Jon? I’m bored. Come make me less bored.” 

He sighed, splashing his face and tugging his sleep shirt over his head. “I really do not live to be your entertainment, no matter how much you think it so.” He called as he ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, making his way to the living room.

“Wanna go for a run?” Daisy ignored him, ploughing ahead to the bits with adrenaline. “We could eat someone. Oh! Play catch with their ribs? You can throw them and I’ll get them.” Her eyes were bright and as she talked, Jon could see the crust of blood and muscle between her teeth. She really was rather uncouth. 

Jon shifted uncomfortably at the word ‘rib,’ fingers immediately finding the odd ring on his finger that had turned into a bit of a touchstone when he was feeling anxious. “You’re really leaning into the whole dog thing now, aren’t you?”

Daisy huffed. “You’re a rude man.”

“Not a man.” Jon corrected, the corner of his lips ticking up.

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Semantics, semantics. Back to the important bit—what are we going to do about me not having fun? We could go pick a fight at the border with some of the Slaughter.” 

Jon waved her off. “Go kill something. Come back when you’re through.” He settled onto the velvet chaise, legs sprawling. “I’m done for the night.”

“ _Jon_. It’s barely one in the morning. You’re _nocturnal_.” 

“I’m sure someone’s willing to hunt with you back at the den.” Even though technically Daisy’s domain was linked to Alister’s pack—a literal den as well as a metaphorical one as it linked to the hilltop manor of the Lord of the Chase—she often spent the night in his neck of the woods, deep in the recesses of his refurbished cavern, curled up against him like a bloody stuffed animal. 

“Ugh. Fine.” Daisy threw up her hands. She got to her feet. “But explain to me again how you’re in the midst of actual wonderland, with countless lives at your disposal, and you’re almost more of a bore than you were in the Before.”

Jon’s brow creased. Thinking of the Before always unsettled him, set his nerves prickling, the back of his mind buzzing. As such, he tried his level best to not think of it at all. “You’re being dramatic. I brought you that guy’s skull just yesterday. We reenacted ‘Hamlet’. I even let you keep it.”

“Yes and it made a lovely planter.” She allowed. “But that was just an amusement and gardening is—is— _grandpa work_.”

Jon clicked his claws against the edge of the chaise in annoyance. “Well I’m sorry I’m not the mate you were looking for at the world’s end.” He ground his knuckles into his forehead, kneading at the flesh. Images raced through his brain—bodies burning, bending, breaking, screams frozen in throats, and _spiders, so many spiders scuttling and weaving and having their way_. He felt phantom words unspooling like silk in his head said in his voice but they were not his, they were—there was a hand in his, light as a ghost, curls brushing against the top of his hair, and blood, always blood, spilling down his front, pouring down his throat—

“Jon.” Daisy said softly. “Now don’t be like that, I didn’t mean anything, really. Just ribbing you. You’re my best mate. No matter what.” 

Jon shook his head, coming out of the fugue. “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine.” 

“Alright. Well. I’m going to go see who’s up for a little chaos. See you when I see you.”

Jon hummed. 

He spent the rest of the night restless despite his exhaustion, pacing the living room, playing chess against himself, sitting upside down on the sofa as he read from a book in each hand. He was about to give up and go hunt something to sate the excess energy when he pulled up short, growling as he felt a tug in his chest and a pull in the strange ring he couldn’t bear to take off. He felt it like a spider feels the faintest vibration of its web—disgusting but apt—someone had glanced off one of his tethers. The ring was harder to explain, it was like someone was prodding at a bruise.

A jolt went through him and he fell to his knees. The Eye shoved information and feeling and memory into him at a ruthless speed. He felt thorns in his throat, felt freckled skin pierced under his fangs, felt the press of lips at his temple. He felt blood flow down his mouth, spilling down his front with reckless abandon, watching it as it wept into the earth, torn straight from the throat of—He felt himself cradled, mind delirious with hunger, mind delirious with _want_ —He felt the gentle scrub of terrycloth against his face, it coming away ruined with browned blood and black ash. He felt his own tears trace paths down his cheeks as flowers withered in his palms—felt the cold press of his cheek against barren soil. He felt a hand at the small of his waist, accompanied by music too sweet and dark to be mortal. He felt horror and anger and—arousal? Surely not—as an attempt was made on his life. All of it orbited the same man, a stranger crowned with blossoms and painted in clay.

He felt and felt and _felt_. 

He knew it was all True. 

He knew the Eye would not keep letting him turn away from these truths, chipping away at his edges until it found purchase, until he was suffused with Knowledge.

Jon snapped and snarled, hand pressing down into the firm floor as he raised himself to a crouch. 

He didn’t know if this man was quarry to be killed or kin to be protected. Seeing as they were linked to the Buried, he suspected the former, even if there was the taste of the Hunt on them, the tie of his tether. But it was all muddled with blood. 

So the Eye wouldn’t let him rest until he embraced its cursed sight?

Fine.

He would do what he did best.

He would Hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Eye at Martin and Jon: now, Kiss :) 
> 
> haha I really didn't intend for the Watcher to become like a fairy godmonster here trying to lead these two helpless idiots back to each other, but in my world, the Eye is fond of its ""adopted"" avatars and still wants to lend them power and lay claim to them, especially the Archivist.
> 
> I was also surprised @ canon when Jon and Martin found Jared Hopworth gardening! I would never have pegged him as an apocalyptic gardener and I found it very endearing.


	36. one for blood and one for bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon travels through the Dark and Martin travels through the Flesh. 
> 
> CWs this chapter: cruelty, body horror, eco horror, endangerment of children, hunting for sport, gore, mention of child and sexual predators.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello pals! Welcome back to the B a t t l e D o m e. As always, thank you for joining me on this truly indulgent endeavour. I finally figured out what is making this so hard for me to gauge when this story will run to completion and the answer is! I can never do anything in half measures! I cannot bring myself to cut worldbuilding at the knees! I was working on this chapter and things just kind of unraveled as they do I'm a very loose writer and I was like, whispering to myself, But What About the ECONOMY?

“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Daisy gnawed at the bone clutched in her fingers, determined to get every last morsel of flesh.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure.” Jon ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it. He was keyed up between irritation and eagerness. After he’d moved passed being bitter that he was doing anything at the Eye’s behest, he was quite eager for the Hunt at hand. The mystery of it all was as enticing as it was infuriating. What was obscured at the other end of this tether, that which could hold only the brutal intimacy of enemy or the almost more alluring intimacy of kin? Jon so rarely gifted tethers as a form of protection and affection. He’d discovered several weaker tethers from the Before, petty quarrels waiting to come to a resolution and smaller affections from a strange mix of Entities, the links smelling of salt and sea, sulfur and white heat. The Vast and the Spiral. And then there was the one closest to the mystery tether in its perplexing intensity—this one was frigid and smelt of antiseptic. The End. 

Odd connections. Unnatural. But he had fleeting moments—flashes in waking and longer reveries in the place where memory meets dreams—where he recalled his life in the Before, where he’d worked as some sort of…librarian? Hm. No. But something along those lines, in a building where the Entities crossed and did not draw blood. Mostly. Strange, strange, strange. His mind pecked at the phantom records, curious and angry in turns at the withheld knowledge. It was _his_ , after all.

Daisy hummed. “Are you cutting through the Slaughter, then?”

He shook his head. “Don’t want to get distracted. Might lose myself in the blood.” He tsked. “Would _probably_ lose myself in the blood.” He’d considered it, because it would be fun, but he reminded himself this wasn’t a road trip.

“It’s not like it’s time sensitive.” Daisy swung her legs from her perch several branches up. She dropped the scoured bone and Jon hissed as it struck him on the shoulder. She grinned at his glare.

“Not especially, no. But I want to know as soon as possible what lies on the other end. What if they _die_ before I find them?” A low growl built in his throat. If they were worth a tether, then they were his and his alone to keep or kill. 

Daisy hopped down from the tree, landing in a bundled crouch. “Well then I suppose you’d have new prey lined right up for you.”

“I want _this_ one.” He pouted. 

“Yes, yes.” Daisy flapped a hand at him. “Very well. Which route are you taking, then? If you’re circumventing the Slaughter then—”

“The Dark.” Jon nodded. “Is the next most direct route to the Buried.” He was absolutely _baffled_ when he’d tugged at the tether and discerned it led to It Is Too Close I Cannot Breathe. 

Daisy hummed again. “Plenty of things crawling and slithering and looming there. Not much better than the Slaughter, except for the lack of frenzy.”

“Exactly.” Jon agreed, dipping his chin. “Might indulge a bit, without the worry of the Cutthroat Quadrille.” All Entities overlapped, their edges bleeding into each other, and some merged more finely and deeply than others. The Hunt and the Slaughter were close enough to be bedfellows, and Jon was not arrogant enough to think he would be able to hold out against the various capsules of spontaneous and fantastic violence. The Dark, however. It was a subtler beast, quiet and insinuating, drawing ever bleaker and closer with the rustle of leaves that built into the heaving of lungs. That was a playground he could afford to indulge in. 

“Right then. I expect you to come back with some very cool stories. Also a souvenir.”

Jon raised a brow. “And what, pray tell, would you like?”

“A magnet.” She deadpanned.

Jon rolled his eyes, pressed a kiss into her temple, and set off. 

At the edge of the Song of Blood, he paused, holding his hands to the dying light on the border of the Dark. One of his hands was gloved, concealing the mess of mismatched flesh and silk. The other hand was a patchwork of burn scars. The bone ring stood out starkly against his brown skin. He ran a finger over it in a slow caress. He wondered if he was about to meet the person responsible for any of his ruins. His lips ticked up in anticipation.

He plunged into the Ever Night.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Martin was pruning the organs of one of the Planters when he felt a sensation in his chest that caused a soft shiver to run down his spine. 

“Please…make it stop.” The Planter begged. “Please…let me die.”

“Shh.” Martin held up a finger, frowning as he let the shears fall to his side. He pressed at his chest, testing the flesh with the tips of his fingers, searching. As he suspected, the feeling had come from the phantom space left by his missing rib. It was so odd, to feel—stroked? Caressed? In a place that wasn’t. Earlier, he’d felt a similar sensation, though quite a lot less pleasant. He’d felt as if a string was being tugged in his chest, or, less charitably, though more accurately, a hook. On a sudden whim, he’d tugged _back_ , but was met with fierce opposition that left his mind feeling crisped. “Oh, that’s not good at all, is it?” He’d said. He was really starting to be unable to set these feelings aside, keep them on the high shelf in his mind that he could ignore if he just didn’t look all the way up. He didn’t like that there was something _other_ tangled up with him, something foreign, not of the Buried, and not even of the Eye, which still fed him little snacks of knowledge and insight for some reason, like he was a favoured pet.

He decided, in that moment, that he, too, needed pruning.

“Please…” The Planter started up again, words and ferns spilling out of chapped lips. 

“Hush, please.” Martin dropped the shears altogether and took up the handful of bulbs that had sprawled at his feet. He pressed one into each of the Planter’s empty sockets, packing them snug with dirt. The mortal whimpered though his hands were light with care. When he was through, he ran a thumb across the mortal’s cheek. “Till next time. Chin up, love. You’re responsible for creating such beautiful, beautiful things. They’ll look absolutely splendid over the mantle.” He paused on his way out. “I’ll let you die right after, hmm?”

He wasn’t cruel, after all.

“So you’re—what? Going on a quest? To find your missing rib?” Gabriel asked incredulously, a low buzz under his voice. The Mud Dauber’s wings flicked with nervous energy. “I thought you could just regrow those?” His right hand—wasp’s?—eyes were wide.

“I could.” Martin allowed. “But that won’t fix the issue of something out there having the old one. I can’t dissolve it at this distance. And if they have a piece of me, depending on who _they_ are, that’s a vulnerability for the Buried.” He fiddled with the ends of his curls, tugging in an absent, anxious manner. “And besides. It feels… _weird_ having something carrying my rib. I don’t like it.” Not completely true. While the whole thing that felt like a fishing line—or, even less charitably, like a _leash_ —was universally unpleasant, the thing with his rib was not always so. On occasion, he felt a, god, a _gnawing on it_ , which was more jarring than anything else. But more frequently he felt a soft, absent touch, like his rib was a well-worn rock at the bottom of a river, rounded with time. 

“But what about us?” Gabriel asked, his several sets of arms all wringing their hands in unison.

“You’ll be fine.” Martin leveled him with an even gaze. “I chose you as my second for more than one reason, Gabriel. You’re more than capable. Honestly, it’s just like babysitting but the babies are sometimes trying to eat each other.”

“Did you mean that to be reassuring because that’s not reassuring.”

“It’ll only be a few days, max.” Martin held out his hand and Gabriel tucked in one of his own. Roots thin as veins flowed from Martin’s palm to his, mapping out their heartlines. “If you need anything, just phone me.” They had actual cells still, for some reason, but they weren’t reliable between domains, and the payphones were notoriously unreliable, not even appearing half the time you needed them. But if they were rooted in each other, they’d be able to reach each other no matter the distance. 

“Remember to water my flowerbed every day, the younger the blood the better, but any will do. And don’t let Valeria and Morgana get tricksy with you—we agreed that Valeria gets all adulterers from now on and Morgana gets all incels, and they have to share predators.” 

With that, Martin set off to follow the homing beacon that was his missing rib. He felt it ambling through the Dark, which wasn’t worth dwelling on too much. Nothing about the state of his rib made a lick of sense. To give a piece of himself was quite an intimate act and it was incredibly disconcerting to not have a clue who had it or why. They couldn’t _control_ him with it or do any meaningful harm, but it made him anxious and divided his focus and he couldn’t afford that in his position.

The most direct path was through the Corruption, but that was disgusting and tensions were high betwixt the two Powers. The Filth kept seeping passed its borders and Martin was going to have to be to the point about it sooner than later. Exultant decay and the sprawling roots of the Buried did not mix. That left the winding path through the Flesh and the Stranger. He’d have diplomatic immunity in Jared’s domain—funny thing, him turning out to be the neighbouring primary Avatar—but the Stranger was a toss-up. While avatars had free rein traveling between domains, it was every avatar for themself once they left the protection of their territories. Martin didn’t have any enemies that he could remember from the Stranger and most avatars were happy enough with their mortals anyways, but he didn’t like the unknown.

Ironic. 

“Blackwood.” Hopworth acknowledged as he held open the gate to the Mortal Garden. “Sure you can’t stay for a cuppa? I’ve got a bunch of Faceless Daisies just budding.”

Martin sighed wistfully. “I really wish I could, Hops. But I’ve got to get this matter sorted sooner than later. Maybe on the way back?”

Jared grunted. “S’fine. I’ll see you then.” 

Martin raised a hand in farewell as he continued on. It really was a shame, he thought, as he resisted the urge to bend and smell the Faint of Hearts that swayed close and brushed the back of his hand. Jared had been experimenting with grafting recently and come up with a truly mesmerising beauty he called the Bone-Crossed Lovers. Martin could just see their spines jutting over a grouping of hedges in the other direction. 

The rest of the Flesh wasn’t nearly so charming. The roads were paved in places with raw muscle and laced with tendon, squishing under his feet and secreting pink juices. Martin wrinkled his nose. The Flesh could at times be wonderfully nuanced and articulate, like the Bone-Turner that made incredible sculptures with bones of many creatures interlaced. Jared had a fountain he’d commissioned from the artist, a spiraling piece that had an eel-like body and the head of a steer, riding the crest of a wave of human skulls that wept water. 

And then they had stinking squishy meat roads.

Martin walked for hours that bled into each other seamlessly—primordial time and manmade time were different beasts altogether. He did not hunger and he did not tire and he did his best to keep his wandering mind from catching on things that would delay his journey. He refused an offer of a sample of jerky from a street merchant as he walked through the square of one of the towns. 

“A feel, sir? One touch and you’ll fall in love! The finest tanning this side of the Flesh!” A vendor cried out, gesturing at Martin with a freckled stretch of skin that wrapped around a tome. “Ink just glides across the pages, smooth as silk.” Martin waved him off politely. 

He was relieved when he exited the marketplace, overwhelmed by the riot of sounds and scents and wares that were as beautiful as they were unnerving if you looked too long. Some of them looked back.

He only stopped when the sunlight waned to the point the Ever-Present Seer’s many eyes became luminescent, its diverse variety of irises taking on an eerie pearl cast. He would feel safest going to ground, but he decided to stop at an inn. He was unlikely to be attacked in his sleep, that was rather unsporting and most avatars of the various Powers played well together. That would all change of course when someone was confident enough to make a play against the Ceaseless Watcher and its Crowned Sentinel in his Panopticon, but for the time being there really was no point in fisticuffs unless it was a quite personal situation.

“Boarding for one night.” Martin said succinctly as he slid a vial across the counter at the inn.

The innkeeper raised a brow. “It’s gonna cost you another for that.”

“What!” Martin blustered. “That’s exorbitant.”

“Cheaper’n I’d charge others. That’s the diplomat rate.” The Golem revealed a grin of blackened teeth and bleeding gums. Clearly they weren’t well off enough to afford living flesh. Though Martin couldn’t imagine how, what with the rates that bordered on pickpocketing. “Hopworth mentioned that his Green Man would be passing through.”

“Fine.” Martin groused as he slid another vial toward the innkeeper. They hummed, pleased, as they unstopped the small glass container and took a whiff. 

“Oh, quality, tha’ is. Fresh.”

“Yes, well.” Martin sniffed. “I don’t go round passing stale fears. We believe in _quality_ in the Buried.” He cast a pointedly _undiplomatic_ look around the inn.

The Golem’s look turned sour. “You can have the room at the top of the stairs. I’d shake out the blankets if I were you. They’re clean, but we’ve had a pinch of sleep creepers lately.”

“Lovely.” Martin said flatly. 

He soon found himself nestled into a surprisingly comfortable bed, that he could hardly enjoy as he kept one eye cracked open for little bugs that might nip out his eyes in his sleep.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon strolled through the Dark leisurely. He was much a bogeyman himself, so he had little to fear in the way of being attacked. The Dark’s ilk tended to be much less territorial than the Hunt. Besides, he was traveling through the capsule of a childhood bully, in which Jon knew—how did he know? He rubbed at his temple—the monsters cared only for the children. Beds were nailed down in a scatter throughout the domain, dark coalesces of shadow reaching out with claws and illuminated teeth. Something about the twisting shadows reminded him of—what, exactly? He just took an immediate distaste to them. 

There were also deep wells and houses with all the lights out and he knew— _how did he Know?_ —there were closets that never ended and basements with monsters beneath the steps and woods full of shifting shapes and glowing eyes. There were heaps of twitching dolls and—Jon scoffed—halls of mirrors full of saw-toothed clowns. There were hospital wards with floors littered with needles and dentist chairs where harsh light shone down on you as your teeth fell out one by one and the faceless dentist lamented ‘ _if only you had flossed_ ’ and—

Jon shook his head, warding off the intrusive thoughts and images and Song of Blood, the feelings. This was not his these were not _his_ and he refused to house all the horrors that pawed under the door of his mind.

The sound of wailing close by and the sharp scent of adrenaline gripped his attention and he tensed, listening for the sound of heartbeats and burning lungs and footsteps padding away at the night.

_There._

Jon’s face split in a fierce smile as he dashed off. He could afford himself this one indulgence. A man had to eat, after all.

It didn’t take long for him to find his prey. It appeared to be three men superimposed over each other, or rather, three masculine silhouettes moving in unison, with a shadowy fedora and a trench coat that trailed off around its ankles in wisps, those damned wisps that pricked at his memory in a decidedly _hateful_ manner. 

“ _Clllarrrriiiiiiiiiccceeee_.” As the shadow creature spoke, candy fell from its lips in a bright tide.

“How do you know my name?” The little girl whispered. She was tucked in on herself, trembling as her hiding place was found.

“ _I’ve always known your name, Clarice_.” 

“I don’t know you.” She sobbed. “Please go away.”

“ _That’s no way to talk to a friend, Clariceee_.” The candy was forming a small mound at its feet, wrappers garish even in the absence of light. The Dark allowed enough of a break in the True Darkness so you could catch glimpses of what was chasing you. 

“I think I’d much rather be your friend than her.” Jon mused, striding forward.

The creature spun, hissing. Its features were vaguely masculine, echoing across all three apparitions. “ _You overstep, Hunter. She is mine_.”

“Who said I’m interested in her?” Jon smiled, his jaw unhinging in a many-toothed grin.

The creature rippled, surprise running through it, then anger. “ _You dare_ —”

“I’ll count to three.” Jon offered amiably. “Give you a little head start.”

“ _I don’t_ —”

“Ah. I see.” Jon’s smile curved into a frown as he Knew what he faced. “You don’t _run_. Well that’s no fun.” He sighed. “Guess I’ll just kill you, then.” 

“ _Wait_ —”

Jon was on the Shade, claws digging into the threefold body that was quite solid despite appearances. The thing writhed and let out the cries of three voices as Jon tore at it. It was quick work, and he sat back on his haunches in the viscera, lips curled in disgust against the candy. “Well that was entirely dissatisfying. No chase _and_ no blood?”

A whimper reminded him the little girl was there, still folded in on herself on the wet ground, limbs quaking.

Jon cocked his head.

“Are you going to eat me, sir?” She asked. Jon almost chuckled at her polite tone.

Jon huffed out a breath. “Would you run?”

“I’d do my best.” She said.

“Mm.” Jon sat back on his haunches, facing the girl. “I don’t think I will. Eat you, I mean.”

“Really?” The girl’s—Clarice’s—eyes were wide. “Why not?”

“I don’t think you’d be any more fun than that, to be honest.” He jerked a thumb back at the pool of candy and black liquid. 

“Oh.” The girl furrowed her brow. She leaned forward and touched his hand, causing him to flinch. She wrapped a small hand around one of his extended claws. “Thank you.”

Jon frowned. “Well. I’d still run if I were you. I won’t eat you. But that might.” He gestured at the skeletal hound advancing. 

Clarice sucked in a breath, tears beginning to spill down her face as she was reminded that there were many things in the Dark and none of them were Safe and Stop and Rest. 

Jon gripped her hand in his, the press of his burnt flesh encompassing her tiny fingers. He rose, facing the hound. 

“Count of three. I’ll give you a head start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin: is that lamp made of people  
> Martin: I think that lamp is made of people  
> Martin: that lamp is people  
> Martin: why is that book staring at me


	37. a crack in the looking glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jon and Martin venture through the Stranger.
> 
> CWs this chapter: body horror, notable gore, dismemberment, compulsion, senseless violence, desperation, cruelty, voyeurism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello you resplendent cherry blossoms! I hope the universe is treating you kindly. In the US we've had quite the excitement and my internal monologue is just different varieties of Screeching. Thank you as always for joining me through this sordid tale. 
> 
> This chapter lightly inspired by the fact I had a dream where my boss felt like he failed the team and invited us to duel him to make up for it except instead of guns or swords we had mannequin arms.

Martin stared down at the plate before him, heaped with raw meat.

“What’sa matter, Flower Boy?” The Golem innkeeper grinned. “Not to your liking?”

“I don’t take my meat so…rare.” He said, doing his best to school the disgust out of his face, his best being not very good at all. 

The innkeeper chortled. “Sensitive type, aren’t you? The Buried.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed. He pushed the plate away from himself and stood. “I’ll go without, thanks.” He hefted the small bag he’d brought with him and made for the door. At the threshold, he paused. “If you ever find yourself in the Buried, I’ll make sure to return your hospitality.” He smiled pointedly, baring his sharp crystalline teeth. The innkeeper grimaced.

Martin didn’t have a map, didn’t need one—seemed all the avatars seemed to have an innate sense of the domains and the distances between them. An internal, apocalyptic GPS. He knew, then, that he had little left to traverse of the Flesh before he crossed over into the Stranger. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He hadn’t been to the realm yet, had only visited Jared in the Flesh, meandered through the Vast (spectacular skies) and avoided the Corruption like—well, like the Plague. 

So he didn’t know exactly what he’d find in the stronghold of the Stranger. But he knew very well he would not like it. Apparitions, mirages, memories melted together with dreams. The Stranger dealt in Unknowing, in pouring out your brain and swirling it until you no longer recognized it as yours. It wasn’t a primary enemy of the Buried—no, those were the Filth and the Desolation. But it was abhorrent on a personal level. Working in the temple of the Eye had grown in him a deep distaste for anything that violated the boundaries of his mind, between the Watcher’s avid gaze and the honeyed hum of the Hive. 

He felt the exact moment he arrived in the accursed realm. The loud colours and sharp smells of the Flesh rolled into a shifting landscape of lavender skies and the scent of something that struck a memory in his mind like a chord, but he couldn’t quite place it. There was the immediate sensation of having a word just on the tip of his tongue. It was confirmed then.

Martin _hated_ the Stranger.

He followed the ley lines through the domain, not venturing off the invisible path. The trees and buildings around him shifted and bent in an irregular circuit. He narrowed his eyes—yes, he was sure that building was his primary school library—or—wait, no, it couldn’t be. But then—that looked exactly like his childhood home except—except the windows and door were the wrong colours, the chimney—maybe the two buildings were blended somehow?—but what if—what if it was _him_ who had changed, not the library or the house or—

Martin gritted his teeth, fingers digging into the strap of his bag, the nails of his other hand driving deep into his palm. He probably owed it to Jared that his venture into the Flesh had been relatively pleasant. Here, though. There was no affection for him in the Stranger. Quite the opposite—Martin had the pricking sense that it could smell the unease on him that wasn’t fear but was close enough. 

He flinched as a mannequin scuttled across the path, crab-walking on too many arms and too many legs, all of which were bent at odd angles. “Christ I can’t wait to get out of here.” He pressed a hand to his chest. He sighed, resolutely venturing forward. He’d only taken a few strides when he paused. He could have sworn he’d heard something…wrong with his steps. He took a few more paces and—there. Like something was stepping in time with him, noticeable only because the noise was too loud to be just him walking the otherwise silent path. He took a deep breath, steeling himself. He turned.

And he was face to face with a blank plastic face. Martin startled back several steps. “Oh god, what do _you_ want?” 

The mannequin tilted its head in an almost mechanical movement, too clean and precise to be natural. It brought its articulated fingers up to its face silently. Then it pressed its thumbs into where eyes ought to be, creating deep, sinking pits. Melted plastic wept down from its brutal sockets, dribbling off the point of its sharp chin. “I need a _face_.” Each word came out as if torn from a different throat.

_They were_. The Eye supplied him helpfully. 

“I’d quite like _yours_.” The mannequin continued.

Slowly, Martin unspooled thorns around his fists, forming gauntlets with wicked points in all directions.

The mannequin lurched forward.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jon left the Dark with a satisfied hum even despite having to shield his eyes as they adjusted to the Stranger’s pastel skies. He’d had his fun between the shadow creature, the skeleton hound, and the Monster That Lives Between Streetlights. He’d found his souvenirs for Daisy—he’d picked up a piece of candy with a razor blade in it from the shadow creature, the hound’s smallest rib, and, well, there just wasn’t enough left of the Streetlight demon to share.

He walked with ease. He wasn’t much concerned with the Stranger as a power. His senses were sharp enough to break through most of their illusions and attempts on his mind. It was more annoying than anything else. Once he’d had to chew through an ambush of mannequins. Hadn’t been able to get the plastic taste out of his mouth for days.

He paused in his path, head canted. There was, of all things, _circus_ music drifting from up ahead. Curious. He was pretty sure the Circus had collapsed after Nikola’s death. Unmaking? She was an animated mass of plastic, after all, stuffed into a ringleader’s mould. He followed the looping noise. The music grew louder as he crested the hill. He peered down onto what looked to be a rusted carnival, a dilapidated fairground full of scattered, flapping tents and peeling posters. He wandered through, wrinkling his nose against the too-sweet scent of fairy floss, stale popcorn, and rotten meat. 

It all led to a merry-go-round at the centre of the corpse of a carnival.

Jon was quite fond of merry-go-rounds. Back in uni, Georgie and his bandmates would brashly claim steeds, more than a little tipsy with cheap alcohol. He’d never shared it with anyone, but he often went back on his own, sober, selecting his steed with great consideration, weighing the merits of each. He would grasp the pole loosely and watch the fairy lights as they twinkled and the ride spun slowly. He’d never shared it with anyone. He didn’t think anyone else would understand the draw of such a purely simple thing. 

“Would you like a ride?” A woman who was definitely not there before asked from her perch on a truly horrid concoction of a pastel blue pony with a mermaid tail and fangs. 

Jon considered. He dipped his chin. “I would.” This ride was neither pure nor simple, but neither was he, so who was he to judge? He had the vague notion that he didn’t have time for this, that there was something pressing to attend to, but he was so _tired_ and wouldn’t it be nice to get off his feet for a moment. 

“Welcome to my domain, by the way.” The woman extended a white glove clad hand. Jon clasped it briefly. “Choose any seat you’d like, but between you and me, the pink lion with the melted eyes is the best seat in the house. Well. Second best.” She patted her mare affectionately. 

Jon took her suggestion, settling onto the lion that did indeed have melted eyes, as well as jaws slathered with iridescent foam. 

“You from the Slaughter?” She asked. Before Jon could answer, she shook her head. “No. The Hunt?”

“How did you know?” He asked, clawed hands cusping the pole that traveled upward in flaky golden spirals. 

She gestured at her own face, which was a patchwork of parts secured by golden staples and stitches. “It’s the eyes.” She said. “You look too present. Put together.” 

Jon hummed noncommittally. 

“Alright, settle in.” A button appeared in her hand. She pressed it and looked up at him with a Cheshire grin. “The show begins when the music does.”

They began to turn at a leisurely pace. The music spilled around them, tendrils of jarring notes that were jaunty and discordant. Jon had the odd notion that if he weren’t what he was, his ears would literally bleed. 

There was a great cacophony as the merry-go-round was surrounded by mortals who wailed and gnashed their teeth, their faces—or lack thereof—expanses of muscle, screaming meat that they clawed at, feeling for what they would never find. Beside him, the woman giggled. She retrieved a rolled-up mound of—of flesh, Jon realised, as she shook it out. It was a face. A face with gaping loose spaces where eyes belonged. A face without a home.

The woman tossed it out and it hit the ground with a soft slap. Immediately, the people ceased their rending of their flesh and lunged for the stretch of skin. 

“It’s like musical chairs.” The avatar explained, smiling. “Only the winner gets the face.”

“Are they free, then, if they win?” Jon asked skeptically, brow furrowed. He pressed a hand to his forehead. The music was giving him a headache. 

She let out a ringing laugh. “Oh.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Hah. No. They get to move on to the Hall of Mirrors then, and wander its corridors, form ever distorted, knowing that this is not their original face and panicking that they can’t remember their true one.” 

Jon watched with clinical interest as the people scrambled over each other, wresting the face from one another, digging their fingers into the eye sockets of the other contestants, the sounds of popping and agony and the slap, slap, slap of skin a harmony to the merry-go-round’s steady melody.

By the time the song was over and the ride came to a soft stop, a single man stood above a ring of corpses, the hard-won flesh pressed against where his own face ought to be. He laughed and it was also a sob. 

“This has been intriguing, but I must get going.” Jon hopped down from the ravaged lion.

The avatar pouted. “So soon? I’ve plenty of other attractions and distractions.”

“I believe you.” Jon pressed the heel of his hand into his eye, and a small measure of clarity ran through him, the need to move on. “Tempting as the offer is, I’ve an appointment to make.”

She sighed. “Oh, alright. Here you go.” She dipped into her pocket and Jon sincerely hoped he was not about to be gifted a face. Instead, she pressed a token into his hand, a tarnished coin stamped with a theatrical tragedy mask. “This’ll grant you safe passage through this domain. Unless the Boss wants a go at you, then you’re on your own.” 

“Thank you.” Jon dipped his head in acknowledgment. He wasn’t concerned about his safety, but a little insurance didn’t hurt, and really, it was the thought that counted.

“Come back anytime.” She waved as he disembarked. 

He glanced back at the merry-go-round as it receded in the distance, pausing midstep.

_Georgie_. He hadn’t remembered her before. How had he not remembered her before? He tentatively pulled at the tether between them. It led in a direction counterpoint to his journey, trailing all the way to the End. He couldn’t bring himself to end his Hunt now, but he would find her later, hoping against hope that she had a better grip on the Before than him. 

He pressed on. He could hear the Song of Blood louder now, more insistent, as he drew ever closer to his quarry. _They were here in the Stranger just like him_. He had no idea what business the Buried would have here of all places, but reasoning paled in comparison to the anticipation that drove him forward. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Fuck _this_ , fuck _you_ , fuck the _Stranger_.” Martin unraveled a tirade of curses, each more creative than the last. He took heaving breaths as he stood over the dismembered mannequin at his feet, hands on his knees. He kicked it pettily, sending its head spinning into the nearby brush. He kicked at the pile of limbs for good measure. “This is the worst quest _ever_.” He straightened up when he finally caught his breath, shooting glares at the realm as a whole. He continued along the path.

He pulled up short as a twinging picked up in the negative space of his missing rib, a phantom sensation, like calling to like. 

_It’s here_. Martin sucked in a harsh breath. His nerves were alight, mind racing, fists clenched so hard his nails bit into his palm, breaking skin. He pulled himself together with a great effort, walking with determination to crest the hill ahead, knowing his bone was on the other side, waiting for him to reclaim it.

His pace picked up as he leaned into the momentum of going downhill. He could see a figure at the bottom, features indistinguishable as it turned its face up towards him. 

“ _You_.” He called out as he neared the figure. “ _You_ have my bone. And _I want it back_.”

The figure came into sudden focus as he pulled up short, nearly losing his balance at the foot of the hill. His throat was a coffin with his voice buried alive. 

“…Mother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon: I am Entirely Above the Stranger's Wiles  
> Also Jon: gets compelled to ride the hell circle
> 
> Martin: I s2g if I see One More Mannequin  
> Martin: Put My Rib Back Where It Came From or So Help Me
> 
> Elias, somewhere: Rosie take my eyes they're being especially stupid again


	38. the familiar among the forsaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin confronts his past and future. In which Jon and Martin find each other at last.
> 
> CWs this chapter: familial abuse, emotional abuse, manipulation, rage, shouting, eco horror, body horror, minor gore (blood briefly mentioned), disorientation, dissociation, compulsion, insertion of memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello friends and fam! Thank you, as always, for rejoining me with this sordid tale. I hope you are safe and sound and the universe is being gentle to you.
> 
> This has...been Such a Journey. Certainly one of my longest works and dearest. I can definitively say that the next chapter will be the last one, an epilogue of sorts. I am quite nervous as endings always make me nervous, but as with the rest of this chaotic story, I will let it tell itself.

Martin stumbled back a step but there really wasn’t anywhere to go. His bare feet dug into the hillside. His heart beat against his ribs. “You’re—I—"

“Eloquent as always.” His mother drawled. 

“You died—you’re dead, I, I buried you.” A cold sweat broke out and Martin wondered, idly, if he was actually getting air in his lungs. “You were sick.” She looked sick, still, once sleek and beautiful silver hair run drab and unkempt, eyes sunken, lit with only that cool fire she reserved for him.

“You never could let me go, could you? Always hanging on the hem of my skirt, _needing_. You were never very good at being alone, were you?”

“I’m—I’m different, now.” His voice was a dry whisper, like kindling popping too softly in the hearth. 

“Oh, yes.” His mother agreed. “Am I supposed to be impressed now that you’re King of the Anthill? Sitting up in your cute little treehouse, directing all your little monsters?” She paused at the pained look on his face, pressing a hand to her heart. “Oh, dear. Did you think I’d be _proud_ of you?”

“I—” Martin bit his lip, breaking skin. “I learned to stop expecting as much from you years ago, Mother.”

She nodded. “I always hoped there was a little sense buried in you somewhere. My only child, bumbling through the world without a clue. Would have been heartbreaking.” She shook her head then her gaze focused once more. “Tell me this, son—if you’ve been a monster all this time with your—” She dragged her nails down her face,”—gross clay face or whatever—why did you make me look at you like this all this time? You _knew_ —you _know_ you look like _him_ , and you made me look at that all these years?”

Martin felt a strange stirring in his chest, prickling in an entirely different way than the stones of rejection and embarrassment in his stomach. It was feverish, it was—

_Anger._

He almost choked on the force of it, a match that could not be unstruck. 

“I’ve a question for you, too, mum.” He started. “How could you hold something like that against your own _child_ for all these years—slowly withdrawing, unable to contain your disgust. And once you got sick—I cared for you, I gave up—I sacrificed so much of myself for you and— _you never even said thank you. Not once_.” By the end, hot tears were pricking at his eyes and his voice was raw, just this side of shouting.

His mother looked dumbstruck. Then her features sank back into that familiar scorn—familiar like bedtime stories should have been, like birthday breakfasts, like those same features, softer, at his recitals and matches and—”So now I’m the villain for getting sick, is it? Wasn’t enough that I worked myself to exhaustion putting food on the table, pretending to care about the little projects you made, putting up with those loud children you brought home—but then they stopped coming, didn’t they?”

“Because of you always railing on about how inconvenient their presences were!” Martin shouted. It felt wrong—it all felt wrong, he’d never shouted at his mother, not since—well, the one time, but that was after a double, he’d just got back at midnight, and his mum had complained about having to fix her own tea—it didn’t matter anymore, he’d never done it again. His nerves were screaming in his skin, flowers shivering where they crested his brow. He felt thorns biting at his insides. 

“And now you’re _yelling_ at your own feeble mother!”

“I buried you.” His fists were clenched so tight he couldn’t feel them any longer. “I buried you. _Stay buried_.” Branches cracked along his spine, blooming layered flowers in sunrise colours so vibrant they almost burned. The crystals in his nailbeds extended, forming talons of cracked geodes and river-smoothed stone. He slammed his hands against the ground and thin branches erupted from the strange soil, forming a cage around his mother that pinned her to the ground. 

“How _dare you, you good-for-nothing_ —”

“Give it back.” He cut her off, stalking close, almost feral in the rage borne from pain, a wound tightknit in his chest, layers of scar tissue over a still-embedded bullet. “Give back every last piece of me you’ve taken.” He reached down for his rib which he now spied wrapped around her ring finger. As soon as he touched it, however, her hand reared back—

—and it was no longer her hand at all.

Martin startled, looking down into pale eyes set into a lavender face, framed by a tangle of wild, dark hair shot through with silver. Martin would have spent more time being captivated if it weren’t for the stranger snapping and snarling with multiple rows of razor-sharp teeth, crowned with wicked fangs. 

“ _Christ_.” Martin reared back from the wooden prison. “What the fuck are _you_.” He hurriedly read the blood-soaked earth packed into the—man’s? Beast’s?—being’s soles and gritted under his claws. _Hunt_. Lesser kin— _vampire_.

The vampire made fruitless swipes at him, growls reverberating through Martin’s own chest. He gave up on that soon enough and settled for _punching_ through the barrier, rolling into a sleek crouch. 

Martin drew upon the alien landscape of the Stranger, bending its unwilling flora to his will, forcing it into his service, summoning crawling vines that shifted iridescent in the sharp light, casting biting rays. Plants in strange shapes erupted from the earth, plants even he could not fathom, he who spoke to all the earth. His power channeled oddly through them, as if his direction was a suggestion that they interpreted on their own terms, sprouting limbs and barbs and—plastic bits? Yep, that was, that was _definitely_ a tide of rabid Astro-Turf right there. Martin shook his bewilderment off, focusing on the fight at hand.

“Why do you have my bone?” He asked, gathering his forces around him.

“Why do you have my _blood_?” The words were practically ripped out of the being’s throat as he lunged, tackling Martin to the ground.

“Your _what_?” Martin bit out. He howled as the vampire’s claws scored his forearms raised in self-defence. Martin’s teeth grew to jagged points, two rows of small, cutthroat stalactites studded through with gems. He pulled at that odd thread savagely that he’d felt earlier—some sort of binding. “Is _that_ what this is? Some vampire nonsense?” That only raised more questions.

The vampire came for his throat—bloody predictable—and Martin’s makeshift army drew him just short, vines anchoring his ankles and the fake grass sharpened to needlepoints beneath him. He scowled as the grass bit into his knees. His jaw began to unhinge and Martin shoved a marble fist into it, causing the vampire to rear back, eyes wide and choking. 

“Stop that.” Martin said crossly. He extricated himself from the monster and leaned down as it sputtered on the ground, hands clasped to throat, eyes now black edge to edge and furious. Martin tsked disapprovingly and bent over, hands on knees. “I came looking for you and it looks like you’ve come looking for me. Which, convenient, thanks. But it seems you’re likely trying to kill me so fuck you on that count, mate.” The vampire looked up at him incredulously. “What I’d like to know is why you have a dumb psychic vampire leash on me. And apparently it goes both ways.” He raised a brow, slightly smug, as the vampire snapped his jaws. Martin frowned suddenly. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his temple. “Is it your fault I’ve been—been seeing things? _Feeling_ things? I keep—” He shook his head. “Look. I just want my rib back. I don’t want to—” He gestured betwixt the two of them. “Go at it, or whatever.”

The vampire sat back on his elbows. Martin loosened his posture, coming to crouch, bracing his hands back on his knees. “Look—”

The vampire lunged again, taking Martin down easily in his compromised stance. The monster panted over him, his voice barely more than an extended snarl. “I should kill you right now.” His tangle of hair draped down, the tips brushing Martin’s cheeks. He thought, inappropriately, that the vampire was rather beautiful, with those long lashes, those high cheekbones, the dark blush of exertion. _Given_ , the exertion _was_ because he was trying to kill him. 

“I’d really prefer you didn’t.” Adrenaline ran rampant within, but he was notably not afraid. No, he felt certain he could dispatch this creature if need be. There was something about him, too, something that burned the edges of his mind like a lighter to a newspaper—a thing they—a thing from _Before_. 

“You’re not afraid of me.” The vampire caught on, confused, and then looking mildly offended. Martin suppressed a sharp bubble of laughter, but he must not have done a good enough job, because the vampire’s expression soured further. Martin had the strangest urge to smooth those features out with his thumb. “Why not?”

“Look, mate.” Martin repeated. “I just—I just want my bone back, okay? I’d give you your blood back if I could. Don’t you have a way of y’know—” He mimed cutting with scissors, “Snipping this thing? Your little—link or whatever.”

A growl picked up in the being’s chest and Martin rolled his eyes, backtracking. “Okay, okay. Your super sophisticated vampiric something or other—Ow.” The tip of the vampire’s claws dug into his chest. 

“It’s _mine_.” The vampire emphasized, holding his hand up to the light—shifted it this way and that. 

“Are you—are you trying to take custody of my fucking _bones_?”

“I must have won it somehow.” The vampire shrugged, then smiled sharply. “Or taken it. Both of which make it _mine_.”

“You bloody goblin.” Martin uttered, dumbstruck. 

“What I’d like to know, however.” The vampire switched gears, leaning even closer down, causing Martin’s heart to skip and stutter. “Is why you also have Daisy’s mark.” He frowned, tilting his head. “But no tie. You’ve been twice-claimed by the Hunt. And you’re not—you’re not _prey_ I can see that now…” The vampire’s eyes transitioned back to pale irises with those slit pupils, especially catlike with his pondering, as if Martin was a butterfly he’d pinned. “You’re _protected_.” He sat back on his haunches, not quite letting up, but giving Martin a bit of breathing room. “I can’t kill you.” He said decisively. “Hell. I was really looking forward to that.”

“Hey!”

The vampire leveled him with an unrepentant look. “I like to kill things, don’t be precious about it. But more so, I was hoping it would get the bloody Eye off my back. It’s been cramming things in my head, too. _Visions_ , as you put it. They’ve been making me _feel things_ and I’d really rather it stop.” He said ‘feel things’ as if the very concept was torturous. He pressed his hands together, bringing the point to the crease in his brows, concentrating. It was endearing, disquietingly so.

“And what have you been…Seeing?” Martin asked, propping himself up on his elbows. The cavalry of plants dispersed, sinking back into the unwelcoming landscape. 

“ _You_.” The vampire’s eyes snapped open. “It’s been _you_.” He said it like it was revelatory.

“I mean, it’s probably because you have my rib for whatever—” Martin cut off, stilling as the Watcher bore down on him once more. The images and sounds and—Buried, even _scents_ —were a merciless barrage, all overlapping, blending, _burning_ —He sucked in a harsh breath, looking up into those fathomless eyes. The vampire glanced down at him, then at his own hand, which had braced Martin. The vampire removed his hand with a look of distaste. “Let me see the ring.”

“I’ve established that’s not going to—”

“I could tear it from you, finger and all.” Martin said coldly. “And that is not a challenge.”

The vampire’s lips pulled back, baring his teeth, though he assented. “I really don’t know why you are kin by association and not quarry. You seem quite killable.”

Martin rolled his eyes as he tugged the vampire’s hand closer, running his finger along his own very rib wrapped around in a nearly skintight ring. “What’s your name, by the way? _One_ of us ought to be civilized.” 

“It’s Jon.” The vampire said grudgingly. 

“Martin—” He introduced himself absently, working the ring off the vamp— _Jon’s_ finger, despite his wordless protest. 

“Martin.” Jon uttered his name lowly, as if asking the very word a question he didn’t know he had.

As soon as the ring hit the top joint of Jon’s finger, Martin froze, then a shudder ran through him. “I’ve done this before.” He whispered. 

“What?”

“I’ve—I’m the one—” He shook his head, screwing his eyes shut against the alien sensation that felt like maybe this body did not belong to him, or was it his mind—? A single image—not even an image, really, a tactile _memory_ —burst into brilliant light in his nerves, in the pads of his fingers— _he_ was the one who put the ring there to begin with, had reached into his chest and spun the jewelry from his own being. _He_ gave this to—

“Jon.” He breathed. Everything came back to him in a fell swoop, proving the Eye’s earlier presence to be a soft caress compared to the feeling of his very existence being skinned, everything beneath his bones and blood—the very core—

“Are you quite alright?” The other man said, shifting uneasily. 

Martin pitched forward, clutching at Jon’s ragged vest, forehead pressed into his shoulder as he collapsed under the weight of the deluge of _being_. The Before and the Now stitched together in his mind, clear and bright and so, so _painful_. He cried out and the vampire patted him awkwardly on the back, hand drifting to settle at the small of Martin’s back.

“Please be okay immediately.” Jon said, harried. “I am not—I’m not equipped for this, whatever it is.”

It was a quicker process than Martin would have expected, becoming again. When the fever pitch leveled into a persistent ache, he looked up at Jon in wonder. “Jon.” He said again.

The vampire’s chin dipped. “Yes.” He said uncertainly. “That is still me.”

“Jon, it’s—oh my god, it’s _you_. And I’m—I’m _me_.”

“That is the ideal state of being, yes. Are you sure—do I need to, hmm—do you need to be, ah, watered? Planted? Is something—running low? You are being distressing and I’d like you to stop, get better, please.”

Martin’s stomach sank. Jon didn’t recognize him. Didn’t _remember_ him. It was unfair to feel so despairing, he knew. He’d forgotten, too. But he was _awake_ now, and to be alone in this—to look at Jon— _Jon Jon Jon_ , he chanted mentally, refusing to forget again. “Put it back.” He said suddenly. 

“What?”

“The bone—my rib—Put it back.”

“ _Christ_. If it’ll stop whatever _this_ is.” Jon grumbled, and Martin’s heart dipped. Jon took the ring off and held it out to Martin, balanced in his palm.

“No. You do it.”

“I—what.”

“You need to do it.”

“Is this some ego thing? Since I took it from you in the first place?” Jon’s eyes narrowed and this was _not the time for dumb vampire mind games_ , Martin thought.

Martin made a frustrated noise. “Just _do it_ , you prat.”

“Rude man.” Jon muttered as he acquiesced. “Are you going to—you don’t want me to just shove it in there, surely?”

Martin parted his chest, the clay smoothing to each side, revealing the cavern full of crystallised bone and birch, of glow-in-the-dark mushrooms and a sundry of blossoms and some really good crunchy leaves he’d found.

“Should I—”

“Just hold it in place.”

Jon pressed the ring against the snap in Martin’s ribs, sucking in a harsh breath. Martin sighed as the ring unfurled into its proper shape, exorcising the phantom emptiness as it slid home. Jon moved to remove his hand but Martin caught his wrist. 

“What are you doing?”

Martin didn’t answer, merely guided him to cusp his sea glass heart, now sealed with gold where it had chipped and broken from various pursuits. He firmly clasped Jon’s hand, cradling it as it cradled the solid organ. 

Jon breathed out in a rush.

“Do you—do you remember?” Martin asked, aware of how thin his voice was, how jagged with hope and fear.

He wasn’t afraid of _Jon_ , after all. 

Just afraid of losing him.

Jon sank forward, fingers trembling around Martin’s heart. “Hnngh—!” It was his turn to twitch and moan, his two lives reconciling themselves as they bled together in his brain. The fingers of his other hand gripped Martin’s arm tightly. Martin winced, but he pressed soothing words into Jon’s hair as he held him through the terrible process of regaining a measure of humanity you didn’t even know to miss, a measure that was as centering as it was agonizing. 

When Jon finally slumped against him, Martin stroked a hand tentatively through the wild mess of his hair. “Jon? Are you—?”

“Martin.” Martin had never been so elated to hear his own name pressed so weakly into the fabric of his flannel. Jon raised his face, pulling himself back slowly, so slowly, and Martin’s heart cinched as he saw the bloody tears that tracked his lover’s face. The lavender skin gave way to warm teak. His teeth evened out until only the primary fangs remained. “Martin.” He pitched himself forward again, gently unhanding Martin’s heart so he could wrap his arms tightly around his shoulders, pressing every inch of himself into Martin.

Martin laughed and it was quite like a sob. “You remember.”

“I can’t believe I ever forgot.” Jon spoke into Martin’s collarbone, breath warm against the exposed flesh.

“Sorry I tried to kill you. Again.”

“Me, too.”

This time Martin’s laugh was less watery.

“So you’re the—you’re the primary Avatar of the Buried, huh?”

“I—you heard all that?” Martin’s face was immediately aflame. “Yeah. Um. I’m kind of the prime minister, or something. Huh.”

“Oh, Martin.” Jon sighed, extricating himself, albeit reluctantly. “I’ve missed that blush.” He chuckled. “In the ten minutes I’ve known to miss it, anyways.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Though maybe—maybe I knew something was wrong, all along, just a bit. Like something was missing.”

“Oh, I certainly did.” Martin raised a brow, glancing down at his chest.

Jon let out a startled, delighted laugh, and the sound was better than any Martin had heard since being reborn. Better than all the horrors and delights alike. Better than all the horrors that were delights. 

“I’d like to think that, too.” Martin said finally. “That I knew to miss you, innately. That’s a good thought. I’m afraid—I’m afraid that it’s wishful thinking, though, that I had to get nudged along by the Cease—” He cut off. “Hold on a tick. Were we—we were set up by the _Eye_!”

Jon hummed. “The Eye—is fond of us.” 

Martin suddenly _Knew_ that as well. “And doesn’t want to let us go, not completely.” He was too shocked to be bitter—that the Eye cared for them in its way, that it wanted to keep them in its clutches. Martin just shook his head. There were too many feelings and thoughts and memories and that was not on the top of his list of concerns by far. He bent to press his forehead against Jon’s. “I’m just glad I got you back.”

Jon hummed his agreement, fingers cusping Martin’s cheek like he was something to be revered.

“It’s going to be—everything’s different, now.” Martin whispered. “We’re different, too.”

Jon leaned back. “Not too different. Never too different.” He frowned. “But we do serve different gods and I can’t—I can’t give the Hunt up for you.” There was despair in his voice. 

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.” Martin shook his head. “We can make it work despite all that.”

“I’d give anything to.” Jon swore, fingers trailing down to press against Martin’s chest.

Martin smiled. “We’ll be our own little Entity in the middle of it all. You and me.”

Jon pulled Martin down into a lingering kiss, tender and sharp, as were most things about them now. “That’s a bit blasphemous, Martin Blackwood.” He murmured against his lips. Martin shivered.

“I’m more than willing to be a bit unholy for you, Jonathan Sims.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon just...Sigh. Can't help trying to kill each other in this one, eh?
> 
> Shout out to the Eye for being post-apocalyptic Tinder for its favourite wayward avatars. Minus points for downloading people's past lives into their brains at hyper-speed.


	39. epilogue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we get an ever after of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just--wow. This is my second complete novel and it's helped me grow so much with worldbuilding, endurance, and experimenting with horror. Thank you for joining me on this cosmic rollercoaster and being here for this milestone. Writing this was a huge comfort and joy, and every little bit of feedback and support you've given me is pinned on my heart. I wish you all the best and brightest.
> 
> And now--these idiots in love get to have peace.

“Oh—there you are.”

Jon looked up as Martin entered the suite, running a hand through his dark curls crowned with Gerber daisies. It was an infinitely sweet look for him, accented by the blood flecked across the stark petals. Jon sat up from where he’d been dangling off the foot of the bed, book in hand. He set the tome aside and leaned back on his palms. “And how are the peasants?”

Martin huffed. “You really should stop calling them that. I’m not even a monarch anymore, I’ve a proper Council.” 

It really had been a good move—less stress on Martin, and more Martin for Jon. He hummed appreciatively. “Fine, then. How are the lowly citizens?” 

Martin’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a joke about the Buried.”

Jon’s lips kicked up in an impish smirk. “Well, they _are_ so often underfoot.”

“You’re a menace.” Martin’s feet pressed down into the carpet of earth that lined his bedchamber. Jon was just grateful they were no longer sleeping in a literal flowerbed. “What were you reading?”

“ _The Tale of a Field Hospital_.” Jon intoned. “Melanie lent it to me.”

“Slaughter, then?”

“Oh, thoroughly.”

Martin flopped onto the bed next to him, pressing a kiss into his tangled hair that now fell well passed his shoulders in ribbons of dark amber with a violet sheen like crows’ feathers. Jon hummed, contented, as Martin’s hand dipped between his shoulder blades and ran down his spine. He flexed his wings where they poked out of the slits cut into his muscle shirt, and Poe made a noise much like a suspension bridge giving out, if only a suspension bridge giving out was dangerously soft and grudging. He shot the infernal creature a pointed look, predator to predator. Jon hissed, not quite dropping his mortal skin but letting the abomination of a cat know just how many teeth he had. Poe puffed out his fur-that-was-shadow and leapt from the bed, striding primly out into the corridor that led to the kitchen.

Martin bopped him on the nose and Jon reared. “Stop that. Be nice.”

Jon touched his nose gingerly, looking at Martin indignantly. Martin tsked, grabbing his hand. Jon wanted to say something mildly scathing, but he couldn’t work it up, not when his lover was dragging his fingertips over his knuckles so gently, then rubbing his thumb over one of his claws.

“Can I paint your nails? They’re so chipped.” 

“You may.” His heart cinched as Martin beamed. 

When the other man returned from the wash closet, he had two bottles of varnish in his hands. 

“Deep plum or cranberry?” 

“Plum.”

Martin nodded gravely. “Painting your nails red is rather redundant with how often they’re covered in blood, anyways.” He settled into the space Jon made for him in the centre of the bed and began to work off the cracked polish with a cotton round. 

“You never did answer.” Jon noted.

“Mm?”

“How the rabble is doing.”

Martin shot him a look that was the softest censure. “The Venuses are rallying for a bill to devour any kin caught in their traps, not just mortals.”

“It’s always something with them, isn’t it.”

“It’s always something with the lot of them.” Martin rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky the Hunt goes by pack structure because the Lord of the Chase happens to be a Wolf.” 

Jon pressed a hand into his chest, claw tips pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Truly, I am blessed. If anyone irks me I can just eat them. You know—your Venuses might be onto something.” 

Martin scoffed. He reached for a coaster on the nightstand and plopped it onto the duvet, depositing the bottle of dark polish as he unscrewed it. He held Jon’s burnt hand aloft, dragging the thin brush in fine strokes along each claw. Jon’s breath caught at the sight of their ring fingers overlapping. Their matching rings caught in the light, branching veins of gold gleaming. They were forged of birch and bone and blood—Martin’s rib resting on Jon’s finger, and his own on his lover’s. They had had a small ceremony before the Buried and an audience with Alister, sealing their joint diplomatic immunity. The day would likely come where a terrible choice must be made between their vows to each other and their vows to their gods, but that was a horror still sleeping in the deep. 

“Think we can sneak away to visit Georgie soon?” Jon asked, hopeful. Once he and Martin had reoriented themselves, Jon had set off to find his Reaper. All roads led to the End in the After, slowly and steadily weaving into the great Corpse Roots. He’d faced Terminus in many masks, struggling through the wasting away of his grandmother, the disembowelment of Daisy, the unspooling of Sasha, the bloated corpse of Tim chewed through by fish, and finally, finally, the memory of his own teeth at Martin’s throat, of his own hands burrowing into Martin’s chest.

It was not his own death he feared. 

Georgie had been waiting for him just on the other side, scythe planted in the loam of the grave beside her. 

“I’ll make it happen.” Martin promised. His tongue poked out just the slightest bit in his concentration as he maneuvered the fine wedge of flesh bracketing his cuticle. He paused. “D’you think we could stop by the Vast?” He worried at his lip, teeth pressed almost deep enough to bite through.

“Yes, darling. Of course.” 

After they’d come to themselves, Martin and Jon had debated seeking out the others, their friends from the Before. They weren’t sure if they would remember them. Or—worse, infinitely worse—they wouldn’t consider them friends at all anymore, now that the world had changed and they had changed with it—becoming both more and less of themselves.

As fate would have it, it seemed like Jon and Martin were particularly dense. Once Melanie had finished screeching out someone else’s death throes, she had only taken a few cursory swipes at Jon before recognizing him. When they’d found Sasha in the Labyrinth she had smiled with too many teeth in too wide a mouth, remarking that she’d have sought them out eventually, when they were interesting enough. 

They still hadn’t found Tim.

The Vast was a swirl of sea and space, and it changed constantly. The first time they went, the stars were sprinkled throughout the sea that was the sky, waves held suspended over a landscape of harsh salt flats and an altitude that should not exist in those conditions. It was beautiful and empty and suffocating. They’d spent hours there, lost in the flats that reflected the stars, that drank in the ocean. The realm was simply too big, too unstable, for Jon’s tether to mean much at all. By the time they ventured meaningfully in one direction, the land had shifted until it was alien. 

They’d been going back every few weeks, when Martin could get a bit of leave from his duties and Jon was back from communing with the Hunt. 

“It’ll be nice to see Ollie again, too, huh?” Martin noted. He’d finished applying the varnish. He set it on the nightstand, then took Jon’s hands in his, blowing on his claws to help the drying along. “And Gerry, now that he’s switched to the End. Make more sense, anyways, what with being a fancy ghost n’ all.”

Jon hummed his agreement, lips quirked indulgently. Even in the After, where their past lives were much like dreams, where blood was like coin and fear was ambrosia, even here, Martin managed to befriend almost anyone he came across. Even _Jared Hopworth_ , and that _dreadful_ Annabelle Cane. It seemed the Eye was very interested in waking them all up, as it were, in chewing on their reckoning between their old selves and their new selves and the blood congealed betwixt monster and monster, old blood that could be resolved in so many interesting ways to witness. 

“Bloody voyeur.” Jon muttered.

Martin quirked a brow. “Are we talking about the Watcher or Elias?”

Jon scoffed. Ah, yes, the golden boy in his tower. “The former, but I have colourful words for that wretch as well. Actions, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Martin crawled by, flopping onto the bed with an arm over his eyes. “But that’s a crusade for another day.” Public enemy number one was the Extinction, for survival, and public enemy number two was Elias, for spite. 

Jon sidled up beside him, dropping his head into his lap. Martin’s free hand immediately came to rest on him, palm flat against his stomach where his shirt had rucked up. Jon practically purred. 

“Would you like some tea?” Martin asked. “I’ve a new blend, fresh from the Gallows.” That was the endearment he’d settled on for the trellis lined with climbing vines. The garden as a whole was still nameless, though, the perfect title eluding Martin, ever on the tip of his tongue and the point of his quill. 

“Mm.” Jon said intelligibly, leaning into the press of Martin’s palms. “Later, I think. Will you just—”

“Yes?” 

“Stay with me, for now.” 

“Alright, then. Come here, you.” Martin tugged on the ends of his hair gently. Anyone else, Jon would have had those fingers with high tea. As it was, Jon curved against Martin’s steady form, heaving a contented sigh. His slim fingers reached up to fiddle with the teeth he’d gifted his lover, dipped in gold and worn on a chain. Jon himself had a pair of ear cuffs made of fossil and gem. Theirs was a dire love, he thought, as he pressed his face into the junction of Martin’s collarbones. 

They fell asleep like that, in layers of blood and warmth. The tips of Jon’s painted claws left imprints in Martin’s flesh. The nettle of Martin’s circlet pricked at Jon’s skin where their foreheads met. 

They left marks in each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> monster boyfriends! monster boyfriends! tender horrible creatures in love! <3
> 
> Now we just need a sitcom where Martin is trying to keep his eldritch cat and monster boyfriend from killing each other.


End file.
